Character Among Characters

By Cindy Reitzi

February 2003

When we say people have character, we look to their actions. But character is not in the grand gesture; Character is in the details.

Small, momentary actions echo. When a powerful person treats a waiter like his doormat, he shows his character. When private citizen Rosa Parks quietly kept her seat on a bus in a resounding moment of weariness, she showed her character. Character becomes all the more visible in unexpected settings.

I recently subbed at Night School for the first time. It’s different from ‘day school,’ but mostly in percentages. Students’ average age is 18-19; about one-third are in special ed. About 10% are single mothers. Some are returning from drug treatment. Most students come to Night School because they are raising themselves. About 80% work and about 50% go on to technical college, job training, or apprenticeships. It has the most successful graduation rate of alternative programs in Madison: 80%.

According to Director Sue Woodruff, there are several reasons for this success: work credits towards graduation, short grading periods (nine weeks), lots of ‘second chances’ for success, and the importance of attendance (four cuts and you’re out).

Generally speaking, Night School students are not highly ‘motivated,’ but they are realistic about their chances in the world without a high school diploma.

Walking in, unsmiling faces greeted me in the art room. But once we found our supplies, most students settled in and painted or sketched contentedly. I did my usual circulate and encourage: “Nice colors,” “I like what you did with the hands,” “It looks like you,” and other highly technical artistic critiques. Shortly into class, two students got up and starting putting on their winter coats.

“So, where are you going?” I asked reasonably.

“Out,” one replied nonchalantly.

“No.” I said, “You don’t leave unless you have to go to the bathroom. And you don’t need a coat for that.”

“She lets us,” the other whined, referring to their teacher.

“No.” I repeated, patiently annoyed at their gall, “You don’t need to take a cigarette break in the middle of class.” They sat down, eyeing me with boredom.

Most students ignored the exchange and focused on their projects; a good sign. Then I circulated over to the paint table and noticed a splotch of blue paint on a chair.

“Someone spilled blue paint on this chair, so you need to come and wipe it up.” No one moved. I went to the students using blue paint in the vicinity and asked each, “Did you spill it?” Everyone said no.

Now I was stuck with the classic Mickey Mouse situation in teaching: a really stupid set up for a power struggle. Just as I was about to get petty and do the “Ok-everyone-using-blue-paint-will-stay-after-school-until-the-spill-gets-cleaned-up” routine, a quiet young man rose from his seat, wet a paper towel and wiped up the paint.

“Thank you,” I said gratefully. Yet some instinct told me that he hadn’t made the mess.

Later, I sauntered by his chair. He was drawing with pastels; he wasn’t even using paint. Just as I was feeling all warm and fuzzy, I turned around to find my two smokers gone. They remained missing for a half-hour (one-third of class time) and so I marked them absent.

At the end of class, I wrapped up with the pearls and swine. First, I called over the two smokers and explained my take-no-prisoners philosophy to them: “I marked you absent for leaving for a third of the class after I told you not to. I told your teacher why.” No arguments.

Next, I walked up to the gentleman in class. His name was Nate.
“Nate, I want to thank you again for cleaning up a mess you didn’t make. You scored major brownie points with me.”

“You gotta brownie?” he asked humorously.

I laughed. “I wish I did. Thank you. That was very classy.”

The next day I was grousing about the paint spiller and smokers to my friend, Mike, a Night School teacher. I also told him about Nate.

“Yeah, Nate’s a great kid,” he agreed. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to do something nice for Nate, and at the same time, make a double-edged gesture of my own.

“Can you make a delivery?” I asked Mike, “And make sure you give it to Nate in art class?”

“Sure.”

Just before Winter Break, I prepped my present. I bought a highly visible chocolate bar in a bright orange wrapper; it was about a foot long, an inch thick and weighed 2 lbs. Even though the gesture was small, I wanted the candy bar to be big. I attached a post-it note that said,

“Dear Nate,
It’s not a ‘brownie’ but I thought you would enjoy this. Thank you again for cleaning up a mess you didn’t create. You showed your true character. Have a wonderful holiday!
Ms. Reitzi”

Mike reported back.

“Nate wasn’t there yet when I delivered the candy bar, but everybody knew who it was for. I said, ‘Someone has manners’ and a couple of the kids looked embarrassed.”

Once Nate got the present, the art teacher gave Mike a later update. She told Nate, “You know, I think you should share that with whoever spilled the paint. Because if they hadn’t spilled it, you wouldn’t have gotten the chocolate.” Before Nate could reply, a girl in class blurted out, “I did it!”

Character is in the details.

Posted February 10, 2003