One of my former students died

yesterday.
I remember him as an unhappy child. He had every reason to be unhappy. It was not his disability which made him unhappy but the fact that he was a severely abused child.
I will never forget the day he came to school so excited because his mother had told him that she had put a chicken sandwich in his lunch box. All morning he kept telling anyone who would listen that he had a chicken sandwich for lunch.
When lunchtime came the teacher aide took out his lunchbox. Inside it there was a dry roll with a single limp lettuce leaf in it. I can still hear his cry of "I don't want it!"
There were unexplained bruises. He couldn't walk so how could he "fall over"?  Even he knew better than to say anything to us - but we suspected any way. 
His mother, single and unemployed, wanted nothing to do with us. The centre's senior social worker could not get into the house to check.  The school bus driver responsible and her aide reported their concern more than once.
I was seeing him for individual work and both I and his classroom teacher kept reporting our concern. I left the school to go back to university and research. I felt I was deserting him - and the other children - but I knew that I couldn't remain where I was. He was too young to write to me but people told me of his progress.
Eventually things did get so bad that he was removed and put into state care. There he got properly fed and clothed and, quite suddenly, his schoolwork improved dramatically. He was no longer considered to be profoundly retarded. 
It was what I had suspected all along. My suspicion that he was hiding his intelligence for his own safety proved correct. He was transferred to another school and eventually went on to university. He became an outspoken advocate for people with disabilities. He was one of those instrumental in setting up our local radio station for the "print handicapped" - something used by many other people as well. 
We would occasionally see one another around the city. He would introduce me as "my reading teacher". 
Yes, I tried to read you too. I didn't always succeed. I still feel guilty about leaving you the way I did - even when you told me that I did the right thing. I did feel pride in your progress and the way you spoke out for others less able to speak out for themselves.
I don't think you were ever a  happy man but you were a thoughtful and caring man - and I liked you for it.