Muted Love in the Cafeteria

Thanks, Dottie, Stephen said with his eyes. He didn’t exactly smile. His mouth may curve at the corner into, at best, a smirk. The fake kind he had to muster effort to make. He definitely didn’t speak. Ever since his mom became a widow, Stephen never spoke. He did speak at one point, but almost overnight, he stopped speaking. It didn’t exactly create a great experience for him at school, where he spent most of his time. Students and teachers alike gave him cold shoulders and dirty looks. They seemed to take his silence personally.

At home, he didn’t speak anymore either, but his mom didn’t make Stephen feel bad about it. She simply sat with him, caressed his arm, and ate dinner in silence with him. She almost preferred the silence due to her own deafening thoughts, and she loved Stephen so much. Her meals and her affection showed him she loved him. She didn’t always have a lot of food around, but she made sure Stephen had his fill.

Now Dottie, she was the cafeteria lady. She wasn’t the only cafeteria lady, but she was the only one who spoke to Stephen. The others served him food without so much as a glance at him (or most students, but especially him). They probably preferred conversations that weren’t one-sided. Stephen himself could barely look at anyone, but Dottie would at least get the “thank you” smirk.

“Here ya go, Stephen honey. Some extra mashed potatuhs,” Dottie said as she winked.

Thanks, Dottie.

Dottie gave him - and many hungry kids - extra food. She treated it like it was a special thing, but she did it all the time, and those on the receiving end truly knew how sweet a gesture it was. It was special, though, because not every student got extra food. Most students figured it wasn’t exactly permitted either because Dottie would sort of look around with the extra scoops, almost as if to keep watch for prying eyes.

Day by day, week by week, month by month, Dottie went the extra mile by simply noticing Stephen. 

One day, well into the school year, other teachers and staff gathered around their tables with their sandwiches, soups, and smoothies. If Dottie was ever at a table with others, she wasn’t necessarily involved or a part of a group. She was just there, almost like an invisible observer. Staff would comment on frustrations of teaching and gossip about difficult kids and their difficult parents. Most of it was understandable, but Dottie felt mostly ignored, like Stephen did. It’s why she connected with him so purposefully. 

“Ugh, guess what David did again when math came around…”

“Lemme guess… made a go at some spitballs again?”

“Oh and Stephen…”

Dottie’s interest piqued, because she knew it had to be her Stephen.

“Stephen just sat there. Most days I can handle him not speaking. But he refused to even do any of his work in class. I can only say so much to a wall.”

Dottie fumed. She felt like the only socially aware staff member to notice that it had been a year to the day since his dad died. Oblivious, other teachers agreed with the annoyance Stephen caused by his outward grief and lack of participation.

Almost 10 minutes into remarks about other students, Dottie interrupted, feeling slightly sad she didn't speak up in the moment. She circled back to her dear friend, Stephen, the subject of their prior gripes.

“Stephen has more pain and presshuh than some of you have on your hardest days. As a ten-year-old boy, he’s experienced some of the saddest, hardest parts of life. You dare to complain about his quiet nature and lack of activity! This boy doesn’t need your activities to prove his intelligence nor his worth. I know it can be hard to engage with him, but how much do you even know about his life?”

The silence was thick and the faces aghast.

In an act of conversational rebellion, Dottie stood up, tossed her lunch trash, and walked out of the staff room with no remorse. She put her hair net back on and headed to the cafeteria. 

Almost as if she had summoned him with her boldness, Dottie passed by Stephen who was lining up for lunch, and she said, “Stephen sweetheart, I hope you’re having the loveliest day!” 

Stephen cracked his smirk, and Dottie felt her heart light up. This precious boy was more important to her than any of the people who condemned his nature.

“I’ve got some extra rolls for you today, nice ‘n warm.”

Thanks, Dottie.

“Hi Tyler, Jonie, Melissa, Henry…” 

Dottie somehow knew pretty much every name of every student. It helped that students stood near their friends in generally the same order each day. Stephen noticed her winking as she gave extra food to certain kids in his class.

The next day, Dottie went to the staff room, against her desire to avoid it, because she wanted to see if her little speech had any effect. As she sat in her spot, she could tell people kept their conversations more hushed and their seats further from hers. As she slowly ate her chips, between bites, she’d listen. Some still talked about the rough day they were having and how they didn’t love how their class behaved when the principal popped in, but no specific names were mentioned. She certainly didn’t hear about Stephen from them. Dottie knew better that not all gossip was won over by her words, and they’d do well to hide it from her in the future, but Dottie counted the tempered discussions as a small win. 

As Dottie left the staff room this particular day, it differed from yesterday in another way. The teacher who commented on Stephen refusing to do any schoolwork said “Dottie, wait up.” Dottie stopped walking and turned to her. “I wanted to apologize. I know it’s Stephen I was complaining about, but you care for him in a special way, and I know it bothered you to hear my biting words. You were right to speak up. I didn’t know it was the anniversary of his father dying. I only found out today when mom dropped him off and she talked of how she commemorated her husband yesterday.”

Realizing this was an even bigger win to hear, Dottie responded.

“Alicia, I appreciate ya telling me this. I know Stephen loves your class and yesterday was a unique day for him. The first year is always hardest in grief,” she said, almost in a knowing way. “I don’t want to decrease your own feelings. Teaching is hard. I simply get more face-to-face with the boy as he walks through my line. I can see more closely what you might miss watching over 30 kids.”

“Well, I’m sure that’s true enough. Good on you for looking out for him.”

Filled with relief and pride, she marched back to her mission field, greeted each child by name, and handed out some extra rolls and mashed potatuhs as usual.

Thanks, Dottie.

“You’re welcome, Stephen dear.”