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By Cindy Reitzi
Staring listlessly into my mug of high-octane coffee the week before break, I pondered, bone-weary, how much I needed a rest from at least one of my jobs. I shuffled around like a zombie extra from “Night of the Living Dead”: dull, complacent, sucked of will. Mornings moved in slow-motion, and I was experiencing existential snits of meaninglessness. Running errands, paying bills, doing laundry minutiae filled my time. Life just wasn’t very big or profound lately. My malaise, I felt, could be cured with consecutive, full nights of sleep.
Perspective, though, would come from a different source.
I was not in the best mood for “Bob” that day. Neither Bob nor I are morning people. Subbing as an aide, I helped this student with his first-hour tasks. Glancing at the to-do list, I started to direct Bob. “Ok, we need to…” when Bob snapped irritably, “I know! You don’t have to tell me what to do!” resenting micro-management from this bossy stranger and asserting his dignity as a worker.
“Great,” I thought, rubbing my forehead, yawning. “Do I need this?”
I was not feeling patient.
I continued indirectly directing Bob, interspersed with more snappish exchanges.
“I’m tired and crabby,” he griped.
“So am I,” I retorted. (Teachers shouldn’t be tired and crabby; they should be patient and kind, I thought.)
“What’s wrong with you, Reitzi?” I berated myself. “Are you on the playground?”
After additional caffeine, my normal teacher instincts returned and I started acting like a grown-up.
“You’re doing a good job, Bob,” I praised. He nodded, mollified. Later, to tone down my bossiness and offer him greater control over his work, I said, “Nice work sweeping, Bob. I don’t see anything on the floor. What do you think?”
He inspected the floor, agreed, and gradually, we began to thaw. After finishing, we sat down in the classroom and got further acquainted. Although Bob was a high school student, he more resembled a vulnerable 3rd grader. Obese and slightly cross-eyed, Bob shuffled like a turtle when he walked, stepping on his pants, untied shoelaces trailing out under the hem. In the fashion-conscious, conformist, dog-eat-dog world of high school, poor Bob was a walking target. He complained that he did get picked on in a mainstream class.
“Hey, Bob,” I suggested gently, “let’s see what we can do about those shoelaces.”
“OK,” he agreed. I bent down to check out the shoelace configuration. With suggestions from the other aides, I looped the laces around one rivet row of his hiking boots then double tied them.
“There,” I smiled, looking up. “We don’t want you tripping or falling and hurting yourself.”
“No,” he concurred. Since he seemed amenable, I also helped him adjust his belt since we noticed he had missed all the belt loops in the back hence, the lop-sided pants.
“Does that feel better?”
“Thank you, Miss Reitzi,” he replied politely.
“You’re welcome, Bob.”
During the week, I learned more about Bob’s life. Bob was talking about the aides that came to his house to help him, and before I thought better of it, I asked, “Why don’t you live with your parents, Bob?” It was an ignorant question; I should have anticipated the outline of the answer.
Still, with unvarnished candor, Bob replied, “My dad is a sex offender and my mom can’t take care of me.”
“Oh… I’m sorry, Bob.” I was sorry for all I imagined Bob had gone through, sorry that I hadn’t been more patient, sorry I hadn’t looked below the surface. The nature of teaching requires hope. Bob had every challenge stacked against him: accident of birth and family, ability, and appearance, yet he had a lumpy dignity if one bothered to look. Bob was tougher than he looked. He was proud of what he could do and stood up for himself, however awkwardly; he was a courteous person once he knew you; he was grateful for the help he received which, in turn, made others willing to help him; he was, in his own way, with lots of help, raising himself because his parents could not; he was honest about the difficulties.
Sometimes when you’re too focused on the philosophical “big picture,” profundity in the details escapes you. Sometimes those meaning-of-life perspective lessons come not from the powerful and articulate but from the vulnerable and voiceless.
If Bob was a little grumpy in the morning, he was more than entitled.
Posted April 9, 2008