A
touching story about how much some students care and love their
teachers.
He was in the first third grade class I taught Saint Mary's School in Morris, Minn. All 34 of my students were dear to me, but Mark Eklund was one in a million. Very neat in appearance, but had that happy-to-be-alive attitude that made even his occasional mischievousness delightful.
Mark talked incessantly. I had to remind
him again and again that talking without permission was not acceptable. What
impressed me so much, though, was his sincere response every time I had to
correct him for misbehaving - "Thank you for correcting me, Sister!"I
didn't know what to make of it at first, but before long I became accustomed to
hearing it many times a day. One morning my patience was growing thin when Mark
talked once too often, and then I made a novice teacher's mistake. I looked at
Mark and said, "If you say one more word, I am going to tape your mouth
shut!" It wasn't ten seconds later when Chuck blurted out, "Mark is
talking again." I hadn't asked any of the students to help me watch Mark,
but since I had stated the punishment in front of the class, I had to act on
it. I remember the scene as if it had occurred this morning. I walked to my
desk, very deliberately opened my drawer and took out a roll of masking tape.
Without saying a word, I proceeded to Mark's desk,tore off two pieces of tape
and made a big X with them over his mouth. I then returned to the front of the
room. As I glanced at Mark to see how he was doing, he winked at me. That did
it!! I started laughing. The class cheered as I walked back to Mark's desk,
removed the tape, and shrugged my shoulders. His first words were, "Thank
you for correcting me, Sister."
At the end of the
year, I was asked to teach junior-high math. The years flew by, and before I
knew it Mark was in my classroom again. He was more handsome than ever and just
as polite. Since he had to listen carefully to my instruction in the "new math,"
he did not talk as much in ninth grade as he had in third. One Friday, things
just didn't feel right. We had worked hard on a new concept all week, and I
sensed that the students were frowning, frustrated with themselves and edgy
with one another.I had to stop this crankiness before it got out of hand. So I
asked them to list the names of the other students in the room on two sheets of
paper, leaving a space between each name. Then I told them to think of the
nicest thing they could say about each of their classmates and write it down.
It took the remainder of the class period to finish their assignment, and as
the students left the room, each one handed me the papers. Charlie smiled. Mark
said, "Thank you for teaching me, Sister. Have a good weekend." That Saturday,
I wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper, and I
listed what everyone else had said about that individual. On Monday I gave each
student his or her list. Before long, the entire class was smiling.
Really?" I heard whispered. "I never knew that I meant anything to
anyone!" "I didn't know others liked me so much." No one ever
mentioned those papers in class again. I never knew if they discussed them
after class or with their parents, but it didn't matter. The exercise had accomplished
its purpose. The studends were happy with themselves and one another again.
That group of students moved on.
Several years later, after I returned from
vacation, my parents met me at the airport. As we were driving home, Mother
asked me the usual questions about the trip, the weather, my experiences in
general. There was a lull in the conversation. Mother gave Dad a sideways
glance and simply says, "Dad?"
My father cleared his
throat as he usually did before something important. "The Eklunds called
last night," he began. "Really?" I said. "I haven't heard
from them in years. I wonder how Mark is." Dad responded quietly.
"Mark was killed in Vietnam," he said. "The funeral is tomorrow;
all parents would like it if you could attend." To this day I can still
point to the exact spot on I-494 where Dad told me about Mark. I had never seen
a serviceman in a military coffin before. Mark looked so handsome, so mature.
All I could think at that moment was, "Mark, I would give all the masking
tape in the world if only you would talk to me." The church was packed
with Mark's friends. Chuck's sister sang "The Battle Hymn of the
republic." Why did it have to rain on the day of the funeral? It was
difficult enough at the graveside. The pastor said the usual prayers, and the
bugler played taps. One by one those who loved Mark took a last walk by the
coffin and sprinkled it with holy water. I was the last one to bless the
coffin. As I stood there, one of the soldiers who acted as pallbearer came up
to me. "Were you Mark's math teacher?" he asked. I nodded as I
continued to stare at the coffin. "Mark talked about you a lot," he
said.
After the funeral,
most of Mark's former classmates headed to Chuck's farmhouse for lunch. Mark's
mother and father were there, obviously waiting for me. "We want to show
you something," his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket.
"They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might
recognize it." Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces
of notebook paper that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many
times. I knew without looking that the papers were the ones on which I had
listed all the good things each of Mark's classmates had said about him.
"Thank you so much for doing that," Mark's mother said. "As you
can see, Mark treasured it." Mark's classmates started to gather around
us. Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and said, "I still have my list. It's
in the top drawer of my desk at home." Chuck's wife said, "Chuck
asked me to put his in our wedding album." "I have mine too,"
Marilyn said. "It's in my diary." Then Vicki, another classmate,
reached into her pocketbook, took out her wallet and showed her worn and
frazzled list to the group. I carry this with me at all times," Vicki said
without batting an eyelash. "I think we all saved our lists." That's
when I finally sat down and cried. I cried for Mark and for all his friends who
would never see him again.
The density of people in society is so thick that we forget that
life will end one day. And we don't know when that one day will be. So please,
tell the people you love and care for, that they are special and important.
Author: Peter Unsworth from Calgary Alberta. Canada
Author: Peter Unsworth from Calgary Alberta. Canada
