lotto

He nods his head yes. But does he get it? No, not really. But he knows what to do – nod; and he’s got the eye contact thing down, too. He doesn’t do it – either one -- to fool, or as a lie. He does it because it’s how he survives and because he knows his parents will, if need be, hire someone to sit next to him after school or before or on weekends, and explain it all to him, simply, cogently, correctly. He’s been diagnosed with a “processing issue,” as the hired psychologist has reported. And it’s true. It’s a valid, informed conclusion. But he will be all right. The school he attends, which costs his parents $45,000 a year – plus private tutoring, et cetera – will advance him. Slowly, perhaps, but it will advance him, carefully, thoughtfully. Further – and more – it will make sure he matriculates to a place that will support his academic and emotional needs. In the end, it all will work out fine, for him. He will enjoy opportunity. A mile and a half away, at the public school down the road, a young man just like him sits in the back row of a class of 40 students. He has been branded “slow,” not officially, but by all those who matter – his teachers and even his friends -- so he not only accepts the role, he cherishes it and sometimes embellishes it. He gets no extra help. He receives no benefit of his condition. He is sinking and he knows it, but has already given up hope. At lunch today, the other boy, the one at the better school, jokes with a friend about some day winning the lottery, unaware that he already has.