Class

You have to admire the effort she put into the project.

The eighth grader took the trouble to purchase special stationery, doll it up with some of her own designs, and write a personal note to each of the teachers who’d stood at the front of her various classrooms for the last four years. Then, just days before graduation, she strolled about the campus, smiling as, one by one, she hand-delivered her creations.

Touched by her personal overture, the teachers paused in their grading and lesson preparations long enough to peel open the envelopes and read the notes inside.

One by one, their jaws went slack.

Each card detailed the myriad ways the girl felt this particular teacher had disappointed her. Some were berated for failing to stimulate or inspire her in the classroom, some for being (to her mind) unbearably boring, some for their physical limitations: an unflattering hair style, a “beer gut.” The notes were quite specific in their criticisms, and remarkably cruel in their tone.

One or two of those on the receiving end just rolled their eyes and tossed their card in the nearest trash; they hadn’t come to expect much more from the children in their charge. But others sought some measure of justice – collecting all the various notes and taking them to the principal.

Who, to his credit, did what few administrators seem willing to do these days: act with authority and dispatch. The girl was suspended for the few days of school remaining, and not allowed to walk at promotion. It was important, the principal felt, that the girl’s friends – some in awe of her impudence, some snickering with glee at their humiliated teachers – see her behavior punished.

Perhaps one or two might manage to graduate middle school with not only the requisite reading and math skills, but some small recognition that decent people don’t treat other people that way.

Can’t help wondering, though, what that girl’s parents thought, when the principal called to tell them what had happened. Were they surprised? Could a girl that age pull together such a project without her folks knowing what she was up to? Was this their first glimpse of their child’s cold heart and deep anger … or were they already well aware of what their little girl was turning into?

My wife had a front-row seat for all this; the girl attended her school, though my wife was denied the sweet privilege of being one of her instructors. She also had the advantage of contrasting the girl’s actions against something she had witnessed in another graduate, a few nights before.

This girl was older, and graduating high school, rather than junior high. Her mother had asked who she might like to have over for a celebration of the big event. Perhaps to her surprise, she discovered that her daughter wasn’t thinking of a party with her peers.

Wouldn’t it be a good thing, the girl asked, to have a get-together that brought together all the teachers who had made an impact on her? Wouldn’t that be a gracious way of saying ‘thank you’ for what they’d invested in her, through the years?

It would, her mother agreed – and I’d love to know what went through Mom’s mind at that instant. Did she already know she’d raised a daughter like that, or was this the moment that revealed what an extraordinary young woman she was sending out into the world? What’s it like, to be a parent, and to know you’ve managed, by the grace of God, to raise a kind, thoughtful, grateful child?

The invitations went out, and my wife – who’d been the girl’s fourth grade homeroom teacher – received one. She went to the event expecting a cup of punch, perhaps, and a smiling moment of remembrance with the young woman and her parents.

What she found was a full buffet, a personal gift, and a summons, in turn, like each of the other teachers, to the front of the crowded room. There, one by one, the young woman detailed some specific things she had learned – some ways of thinking she’d refined – during her time in each of their classrooms.

The teachers, as you might imagine, marveled at the kindness and the young lady’s appreciation. Wonder how many of them, standing there, thought what I thought, hearing about this … that I wish I had done something so gracious for my own favorite teachers along the way.

The teacher I would most want to thank was Mrs. Carr.

Mrs. Carr taught my fourth-grade class at Sea Isle Elementary in Memphis, Tennessee. She was the school’s first black teacher, in a city still racked by racial violence in the aftermath of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s recent assassination there. Tensions were running high enough that, for the first month of the school year, all but two families protested the hiring of a black instructor by keeping their children home from Mrs. Carr’s class.

So, for those first few weeks, I had Mrs. Carr and her lessons largely to myself. I found her a gentle, soft-spoken lady with a warm smile and the light of wisdom in her eyes. She had a sense of humor. I wonder now what thoughts went through her mind, looking out, those first days, on her class of two.

I was too young then, to ponder such things. What’s more, I had problems of my own. It was the year we discovered I needed glasses – but not before a lot of baseballs and footballs and dodge balls coming out of nowhere struck me, zipped past me, and thoroughly humiliated me in the eyes of the P.E. and playground crowds. A boy not adept with a ball – half-blind or no – is a lonely creature, come recess time.

It was a difficult year for me, physically, socially, emotionally. Mrs. Carr seemed to notice that, and found her own ways to encourage me. Wish I could tell you how, but all I really remember is that smile, the voice, and the kindness. I’ve remembered them often, across the decades, with undiminished gratitude, and often wondered what became of her. But a few months after I promoted from her class, my family moved to Arizona, and I never saw again.

Until a few weeks ago, when I mentioned my fondness for her at a family lunch. Later that afternoon, my sister – one of the truly great Internet detectives – sent me a text with Mrs. Carr’s obituary.

She passed away 11 years ago. Her name was Dorothy. She was married to a doctor and raised a daughter, now a celebrated attorney in Mobile, Alabama. She was enormously popular in a remarkable variety of social circles, enjoyed quilting, and retired after 35 years of teaching children like me. She was a Christian, active in her Presbyterian church.

And she showed a great deal of her Father’s love and mercy to a fearful little boy who needed very much to see it. Bet I wasn’t the only one.

God bless all of the teachers who look on a child, and see not just a mind, but a soul.

Thank you, Mrs. Carr, and rest in heavenly peace.