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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
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 students 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
side-ways 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, and his 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 END
Written by: Sister Helen P. Mrosla
© October 17, 1998 club_foot@hotmail.com
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