And I'm naming it.
Not after myself.
After Mr. Alvarez."
I heard, later, that half the room didn't even remember Mr. Alvarez.
But some did, and they went very still.
Mr. Alvarez was a janitor at our school.
For four years, he was the one adult who was kind to my son. He let Daniel eat lunch in the maintenance office when the cafeteria was too much. He talked to him about fixing things, building things. He told a fourteen-year-old boy that the people who make you feel small are the ones most afraid of their own size.
Mr. Alvarez had passed away two years ago.
Daniel found out and flew back for the funeral. He was one of eleven people there.
"The one person in that entire school who treated me like I mattered," Daniel said, his voice finally cracking, just slightly, "was the man who emptied the trash cans.
