I realize that last week’s article was a bit of a bring-down. For this reason, I will begin with a story that I hope will make us all feel a little better. William Tell All presents “The Ballad of April-Marie, Part One.”

This weekend, my friend and I reached a new low. I forget who suggested it, but we both knew that it was inevitable. I clothed myself, wiped the burrito stains off the corners of my mouth, and trudged down the lonely steps of my entryway. I knocked on her door. “You ready?” I asked timidly. An ambivalent “I guess” was her response. Our feet dragged as we made our way into the square, each step bringing us closer to our horrifying Valentines Day weekend fate. Upon our arrival at the movie theatre, I asked myself if it was worth it. After all, I deserve to retain some shred of dignity! Even though everyone else I knew was with a significant other, or at a party attempting to find one, it seemed to me that my situation could not really warrant my disgraceful Saturday night pity party. Oh, well. We stepped up to the window; I slapped down my credit card and proclaimed to the world, “One for The Vow.”

I thought to myself, “Why would I pay to see this? I’ve already seen The Last Song. And Dear John. Miley Cyrus is so talented.” We stepped into the dark theatre, and, as expected, a horde of couples surrounded us. Couples everywhere. Disgusting ones, cute ones, tall ones, short ones, fat ones, skinny ones, oh-my-god-she’s-out-of-her-league ones, crap-he’s-texting-during-a-date-I’m-so-embarrassed-for-them ones. We sat down and lowered our heads in shame. There was nowhere you could rest your eyes without being assaulted by images of puppy love. Guess what people, you’re going to break up and then your life is just going to be awful and then you’re going to die. Get your sickening happiness out of this movie theatre so I can enjoy Rachel McAdams’s memory loss in peace.

Clichéd transitional phrase alert. All of a sudden, the door to the dark room swung open, and a lone figure entered the room, popcorn and soda in hand. It wasn’t just any popcorn; it was extra large, the kind that ought to bear a warning label featuring Wilfred Brimley’s iconic mispronunciation. Nothing scares people more than da-beetus. Or is it dabeatis? In either case, it makes a great rap song. Youtube it – trust me. Anyway, this spectral human form sat down in the row next to us. It placed its drink into the holder, and cradled the popcorn with a tenderness I had never before encountered. I soon realized the newcomer was a well-dressed woman who reminded me of a younger Megan Mullally. “Her boyfriend must be running late,” I thought. “He probably just had to run to the bathroom.” Minute after awkward minute crept by, and it became apparent to me that she was, in fact, attending The Vow alone on a Saturday night. It can’t get much worse than that. I was amazed at her unashamed posture, her silent dignity. She shifted her adorable thick-rimmed glasses that sat atop her shapely nose, and, for a moment, I slipped into reverie.

Her name is April. April-Marie Willingham. She always insisted on the hyphenated spelling, because it sounds more romantic. Born and raised in a small Midwestern town, she defied all odds and moved to New York City to become an actress. Her family told her she couldn’t do it, but April-Marie was determined to follow her dreams. Mr. and Mrs. Willingham didn’t approve in the slightest; they simply could not understand what had gotten into their sweet little girl. April-Marie knew that her parents would eventually understand, however, and teary-eyed, she stepped onto the Port Authority-bound Greyhound. Without financial support from her parents, she could only afford a cramped apartment in Queens. Still, she found happiness in her tiny room, because it was her own. She decorated it with pictures of her beloved family and friends. She cared for them deeply, but for the time being, she had to leave them and listen to her heart. Soon, she landed a few small gigs, and she slowly made a name for herself in the off-Broadway scene, landing leading roles in The Last Five Years and the revival of Nine.

While walking down Fifth Avenue on a bright Saturday morning, coffee in hand, she collided with another absent-minded pedestrian. She was now wearing her caffeinated beverage all over her Goodwill blouse. A soothing voice serenaded her ears, “I’m so sorry miss! Let me help you.” April-Marie looked up, and there was the most handsome man she had ever seen. “My name is Jim. I’m not usually this oblivious!” The breeze gently caressed his brown hair, and the soft sunlight accentuated his blue eyes and pristine teeth. The rest is history. They married and moved to Long Island, where they settled in a humble home with a picket fence and a cute backyard. April-Marie continued to garner critical acclaim, and Jim became a teacher in a local middle school. Love, which seemed for so long to be only a youthful dream, suddenly became wonderfully real.

However, all good things must come to an end. Jim did not return home from school on the evening of August 17^th, and April-Marie called the local police, knowing that such behavior was entirely uncharacteristic. They told her to wait until the next day. Still nothing. In a week’s time, no one had heard from Jim. A month passed, then a year. The case was closed. Unable to endure the pain of living in their former home, April-Marie moved to Boston to live with a cousin.

It was as if I had found a long-lost sister; her story filled me with a newfound strength to push through the horrible movie I was about to see, as well as the pain of a lonely Valentine’s Day. We can all learn from April-Marie’s story. She can see a movie alone without fear, without shame, without self-consciousness. She has been through Hell, but she still endures, thrives even. If she can find joy in Channing Tatum’s lackluster acting, so can we. April-Marie is love; April-Marie is hope.

Will Simmons ’14 (wsimmons@college) hopes he has been able to reach out to all of those singles out there who braved this Valentine’s Day.

After a hiatus of this length, you must be beside yourself with excitement at the chance to hear about my escapades of the last month. It was glorious; I went home and ate at IHOP every single day. I am not kidding. Every day. I’m returning to school rested, relaxed, and filled with a new zest for life! I mean yes, I have resorted to online dating, and the only people who contact me have tattoos of chainsaws or own real stallions. The latter would be great, but all the stallion owners also have a pathological fear of cheese. I had no idea there was even such a thing. Moreover, apparently I look “exactly like a young Philip Seymour Hoffman.” Oh, and you know that awkward moment when you have class with someone you messaged on OKCupid saying, “OMG MY IDEAL BOYFRIEND IS JIM HALPERT TOO”? You know that even more awkward moment when he doesn’t respond, but you have to work on a group project together? You know that awkward moment when your most-played song on iTunes is “The Shoop Shoop Song”? You know that awkward moment when your friend is talking about how rat mothers eat their young to conserve nutrients and you think being a rat child would be fantastic? I’m not going to let that get me down. #Iamhoneybadgerhearmeroar. Keep reading. I know that it’s no fun reading the intellectual section of William Tell All, but it is certainly worth the effort this week.

I spent January working in a Boston public school, an experience that undoubtedly shaped my views on education. Specifically, I had the opportunity to volunteer in an integrated special education program, an innovative model for teaching students of varying abilities together in the same classroom. There were many intriguing youth development concepts that I encountered in those few weeks, ranging from gender issues to student engagement. For this article, I will start with a single story that I hope will serve as an effective springboard for discussion.

I spent most of my time assisting with daily classroom management, a task that often required serious disciplinary measures. Fridays were the worst; pent up energy and frustration took their toll as the weeks progressed. On one particular Friday, the students returned from lunch, and the teachers and I sensed that something had happened. The cadre of boys who specialized in misbehavior were all red-faced, out-of-breath, and particularly disruptive. As the afternoon wore on, one student received warning after warning for not listening or doing his work. He was one of the tough kids; he was flippant, domineering, stubborn, and entirely “too cool for school.” A notorious troublemaker, every teacher knew his name, and, that day, he was so out of line that class could hardly proceed. We all thought that he was just being a pain, and we wrote his demeanor off as an annoyance that was undeserving of our attention. Stern threats of detention and extra work had no effect. Eventually, he received the dreaded threat of a call home. His demeanor instantly changed. Everyone else was helping other students, so I was the only teacher who saw him run out of the classroom. I came after him, and after checking all the obvious places, I found him alone in a nearby classroom, bawling and pounding his fist on a desk. My first impulse was to reprimand him. I wanted to legitimize myself as a respected teacher. After all, I thought I knew everything I needed to know. I started to shout, “How could you leave without asking? We were so worried about you!” He sat down and buried his face in his hands, and I knew that my approach was ineffective.

Unsure of what to do, all I could muster was a soft, “What’s wrong?”

He looked up, his face stained with tears, and said, “Nothing. I don’t want anyone to see me crying.”

“Well, just let me know if you want to talk,” I replied.

I couldn’t leave him, and he wouldn’t return to class. Finally, after a lengthy period of sitting in silence, he turned to me and said, “The other boys made fun of my mom. They know she’s not around very much. I don’t want to be here.” I consoled him as best I could. After a bit of discussion, he returned to class, and a full investigation was launched into the incident. Little did I know, all I had to do was listen.

Harvard students tend to think that they have an answer for everything. I assumed that I could create positive change in the classroom in a few weeks; I thought that my previous experience in youth development made me an expert. I considered myself well-versed in disciplinary methods. What I learned, however, is that I have a long way to go, since merely stamping oneself with the Harvard logo is entirely futile. It becomes a shield against learning, a pompous barrier behind which one can hide from the real world. That day, I understood that my education is a supplement to what can be learned from the vibrant and multifaceted people who populate our lives. I would have never known the boy’s story, and I never could have guessed the root of his misbehavior had I not listened. Surely, it is our job to listen and observe so that we can someday be innovators. We may have endless resources at our fingertips and a world-renowned education under our belts, but success depends on a willingness to learn, not the vain urge to demonstrate our skills. It is the duty of Harvard students to use their position not to “fix” things, but to dive into complex educational inequities with the intent to work alongside already established practitioners to find solutions.

In other news, the Sackler Museum’s fourth floor has re-opened with new masterpieces from Harvard’s art collection. I will be reviewing this amazing exhibition next week; in the interim, go check it out. We have many great things lined up for our readers this semester. Be excited. Over and out.

Will Simmons ’14 (wsimmons@college) has decided to learn from the vibrant community around him, even when it is an online dating site.