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For the past three weeks I taught a documentary film making institute for 14 young media activists. Yesterday was our last day of meeting as a big group. The focus of the documentary we shot was teen homelessness in New York City. The students ranged in age from 14 to 21 and come from four metro-area under-served schools. Many of them live in the projects in Harlem or the Bronx, one student hails from South Brooklyn, and one student lives in a group home.

Shamrod is fourteen. He is 6 feet, 3 inches tall. Everyone in the class knows his exact height. He tends to say things like, "Hey, Billy, I will hang that poster for you. I am 6 feet, 3 inches tall. I can reach up high."

On the second day of class, while downing a triad of whole granola bars in two bites each he informed me, "Billy, you know we are in a recession." I could tell he thought this information was very important to the focus of the class. "I am aware of this, Sham. Were you listening to the news this morning?" I ask. "Nah, nah. See, Billy, I live in the projects, so I know everything."

At the beginning of the third day we played a game called "Identity Twister." Sham was very upset that "Jamaican" wasn't a choice under the category of race. He begrudgingly chose "West Indian" and "Black" but he felt cheated. I told my partner, The Activist, that the thing I love the most about knowing Sham is the sheer mathematical improbability of our relationship. When we did a pronoun check-in after our game, Sham was shocked to learn that some of the people we were going to be interviewing in our project were transgender. "Wait, you mean transvestites?" We talked about language and letting people self-define. Then we did an exercise in which we read stories about youth who were about to become homeless. Sham was appalled by the story of Blossom, a teenage Jamaican lesbian who left her family and came to the US as an undocumented immigrant to flee homophobia in her home town. "That's not right," he said.

Later, we were discussing the relationship between poverty and disability. We read the story of a family that couldn't afford to take care of their paralyzed son and were contemplating giving him up so that he could get the health care he needed. Olivia, the film's director said, "Our group decided that the family should give him up, even though it is hard." Sham shook his head, he wiped his face with his large hand and said, "But, but, but you can't do that. Even if it feels right. Listen, I just know that if I ever had to give up my son . . . that would just haunt me every day for the rest of my whole life. I would miss him every minute, every day."

I asked the group if anyone had a family member who was differently-abled. "I do," said Sham. "My cousin was born without part of his leg. It is awful." I worried he was about to say it was gross or weird, but instead he said, "It makes me mad. Grown men, teenagers, my age, make fun of him. He was BORN that way. I have to fight peoples my own age, who should be nicer, cause they are always yelling stuff at him."

At the end of the third day Sham asked me, "Billy, what is the last stop on the J train?" The J train, anyway you take it, goes to one of the poorest and roughest Ghetto's in New York, Jamaica, Queens. "Why do you need to know that Sham?" He looks at me anxiously, "I am meeting someone at the last stop on the J train." My newbie teacher self is uncertain what to say next. The thought of my youngest student leaving class and getting in some type of bad situation way out in Jamaica while his mother thinks he is safe and on his way back to Harlem worries me. "Why are you going out there?" He shifts uncomfortably, "I just need to meet someone." I tell Sham that it is important to go to new neighborhoods with someone who knows their way around. He rolls his eyes, "Billy, I am from the projects, the projects, Harlem." I cannot help myself from saying that everyplace has its own set of rules.

I realize he is probably going out to see his dad, who got out a jail the day before. I think long and hard about whether to call his mom. I decide to trust him. But, I call him later that evening, "I just wanted to be sure that you found the person you were meeting." He laughs. "Oh, Billy."

Sham has an amazing way with people. He says he is shy, that he doesn't like asking questions, and yet in nearly every interview he took part in there was a moment when he would step out from behind the camera or take off his ear phones and hand the mic to another student and ask a question like, "Has this experience made you a stronger person?"

He is an amazing speaker and interviewer. He is articulate and thoughtful. He can remember the most minute of details. He thinks hard about everything he sees and hears. He has an amazing mind. But, he can barely write or read. On our fifth day of class the students each wrote a rough draft of a short letter to the mayor about why and how the mayor's office should help with teen homelessness. Sham's letter was two sentences long. It read:

Deer Meyr. Pleze end ten homlesnessnesess. It not rite. Thx, Sham

I . . . I didn't know how to . . . I felt betrayed for Sham. How had he been let down so badly that he couldn't spell the word that fell so coyly and effortlessly from his mouth, please? I asked the group to share their letters. Several students read their notes aloud. Then, Sham asked to go. "Go for it," I feigned optimism.

"Dear Mister Mayor," he looked down at his paper and pretended to read the next line, "I know you are a busy person and that you have a lot of responsibilities." He went on, "Imagine, Mr. Mayor, if you were poor and if your own son, your own flesh and blood, was homeless. Imagine how sad you would feel if he was homeless because he had a disability or because he was gay or because there wasn't enough housing for him. What if he had no place to sleep or no food or shelter? How would that make you feel?" He pretended to glance at his paper again, "Oh, yeah. Homes are a human right. Everyone deserves a place to live. Thank you, very much, Sham."

"Two snaps for Sham's, letter." I said, "Sham, that was a great emotional appeal and a wonderful letter, I hope you will help us write our final letter to the Mayor at the end of the institute." My heart felt like a ton of bricks. He has so much to write, but each word is a mangled painful jumble of shaky lines.

I decided to take a soft approach. The next week we did a writing assignment on a worksheet. "Just give me bullet points" I instructed the class, being sure to follow up with Sham. The sheet asked, "What are some reasons why documentary film makers can't always tell their version of the truth?" Sham wrote down two illegible scribbles. "What are you thinking, Sham, what are the reasons?"

"Well, there are three reasons, really: Money, Power, Respect." I said, "Can you explain that a bit more?" "Money, if someone doesn't like what you say in your film, they might not give you the money for making it. Power, if someone has power over you they might not let you tell the truth. Respect, if you have a lot of respect for someone, you might not want to show bad things about them." I pointed to his paper, "Those are great answers, Sham, can you put three bullet points on your answer and write money, power and respect next to them?"

A couple of days later we were riding down in the elevator together. Sham rested his elbow on my shoulder in a way he has become accustomed to doing. It makes him feel tall. He said to me, "Billy, I have a lot of things on my mind." "What's up, Sham?" I ask. "Well, I have just been thinking. Do I do the things I do because of something in me, because I love them, or do I do things because of other people, because society tells me I should love them?" "That's a tough question, Sham. What are your favorite things to do?" He shifts his weight, "Well, skateboarding, but see, do I really love skateboarding or do I love it because I am a guy and society tells me to love it?" He is deep in thought, "Well, Sham, sometimes you just love the things you love. Regardless of the reasons, if you love skateboarding, you love it and that's okay as long as you aren't hurting anyone or yourself." He thinks some more, "I guess," he says, "but I am just really trying to figure out who I am, who is Sham?" I poke his stomach with my finger, making him giggle and grab his side, "That is the question I would like to figure out, too."

On the second to last day of class I had to remind Sham for about the two-hundredth time to throw away his granola bar wrappers. He smiled, and snatched them up. Then he said, "Billy, you know, you are one of my, okay, you are my favorite teacher, but you are really annoying." He has an amazing knack for saying exactly the wrong thing in a way that feels perfect. "You are always making me do 100 things at once. And I do them, but it is a lot of work, then I am like, whew, I need a nap. Then I realize I liked them."

That morning all the students wrote a pitch for a documentary they would like to make next summer. Sham asked for my help at the computer. He was researching Muay Thai boxing, the subject of his documentary. He asked me what country Muay Thai comes from. I replied Thailand. A few minutes later he called me over, "I am having trouble finding information." He said. I looked at his Google window. There was a long list of men's clothing stores. In the search box he had typed "Tieland."

He gave the best pitch in the class. He was passionate. He spoke about international cultural exchange, about physical and mental fitness, about learning from people across the globe. He had an amazingly accurate and thoughtful budget. We ordered Phad Thai for the class lunch. "I am definitely going to Thailand, now!" Sham said wolfing down noodles.

Despite everything, I believe he will.