Greenway Hollanders

His name was identifiably Dutch—Tilstra, maybe. . .Kevin Tilstra. Out of two thousand students in the Phoenix high school where I taught, he was, to my knowledge, the only kid blessed, as I am, with a recognizably Dutch surname.

He was thin, I remember, his face, long and pallid, almost emaciated, and his hair, a dry clump of erratic, colorless brush that was always too long. He will never slip from my memory, even though I never poured over his essays, like I did so many other kids’ work that year.

That I knew him at all was an accident of educational theory. Our English Department had its own building, eight classroom areas separated only (if desired) by curtains.

We “team taught” quite a bit, and Kevin belonged to Helene, my colleague. But during class, he sat at the far edge of her class, adjacent to my students.

One day I stumbled on his name on Helene’s rolls. "He's Dutch," I told her, pointing to the name. "The kid is Dutch."

She wasn't moved, barely found the fact amusing.

The next day, when I saw him, I walked over and nudged him. “Hey, Tilstra,” I said. "I’m Dutch." He looked at me strangely. "Schaap—it’s Dutch. You know?--Hollander?"

I could have been speaking another language.

"You’re Dutch too," I told him. "You know that? You’re Dutch—I’m Dutch," I said. "We’re the only Hollanders around here. We got to stick together, see?—a couple of wooden shoes."

He smiled, shrugged his shoulders.

I never knew much more about Kevin Tilstra. Occasionally, I’d bump into him, nudge him like I had that first day, call him a "Hollander." And he’d smile, laugh. He seemed to have few friends.

He had a brother, a freshman I never knew or saw, a brother who was overweight and depressed. One day, I remember, I heard horrible news. “Kevin, you know?—your Kevin?” Helene said. “Did you hear about his brother?”

I had no idea.

“He hung himself—Miller told me this morning," she said, referring to a counselor. “Kevin's not going to be back for awhile—maybe a week.”

Suicide is always shocking, but that day I wasn't haunted by the boy's death. I didn't know Kevin's little brother at all. Even Kevin wasn't my student.

A week later, that long, gangly kid came walking in through the door on my side of the building and headed straight for my desk, coming to me for wisdom or comfort or whatever his shattered soul needed, something he evidently felt I could give him.

He never said a word. He just stood there and waited for understanding from the man who'd told him a half dozen times that the only Hollanders in this school had to stick together. I’ll never forget his silence, nor will I forget mine.

Today, when I think of how a few gentle nudges and a dime’s worth of attention prompted that kid to seek me out for comfort, I can’t help but marvel at how fragile we are, how deeply we all stand in need of love and dignity.