Not Quite Humor, 11/9/97: A Touching Story

Hey,

Rather than send out a humor email this week, I thought you might really
enjoy this story. It was forwarded to me by Vivian Chiang, from
Taiwan. Sorry if you've already seen it.

For those of you in the Boston area, I hope to see you at the NAAAP
Professional Development seminar on Thursday night. It should be very
informative. Take care and talk to you soon!

-Josh.
______________________________________________

Subject: A touching story

He was in the first third grade class I taught at 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
him 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 instructions in the "new math," he
did not talk as much in ninth grade as he had in the 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 the 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 light
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 grave
side.
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 had 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
Chucks 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 this 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. Mrosia