In yesterday’s post, I introduced my first best teaching story, that of Kerwin. Tonight brings that story’s stirring conclusion.
If you have not read Part I, please do so now. Part II will pack a much harder punch if you know what came before.
Since publishing Part I, I’ve realized I failed to name the librarian who serves as our main character. For convenience, I shall call her Mary.
And before beginning, I once again emphasize that although I know every detail of this story, and that Mary’s every thought and emotion resonates with me as if it were mine alone–even so, the story is not mine. The fact that Mary is my name as well as hers is mere coincidence.
Now to resume.
You recall that Mary has been stressed almost to the point of saying a word she has never said. And that it is the Class from Hail that she fears she will say it to.
I will not identify the C from H except to say that its students were old enough to know better. Period.
Mary and the C from H had maintained a peaceful coexistence for several months without incident. Mary had simply begun carrying a strong antacid in her purse on their class day.
On the day we meet them, Mary has prepared a lesson on reference books. She has made a set of transparencies. She plans to lecture. She plans to assign class work. She has great expectations. In the next forty-five minutes, she will turn the C from H into crack encyclopedia users.
Things did not go as Mary planned. Students came barreling across campus from the gymnasium. They were jiggly. They were wild. They did not care to sit and listen. Every time Mary opened her mouth, one of the C from H opened his or her mouth and spoke a gross irrelevancy. Mary thought about the antacid in her purse.
When, after eight or ten interruptions, Mary thought she had things under control, she began her lecture–again–but here came Kerwin. Late. Loud. Fully aware of the production he was making of himself.
Mary stopped, got Kerwin settled in his chair, got him settled again, got everybody settled again. Then she began–how many times now?–her talk.
For some reason, Kerwin decided he needed to move his chair. Halfway across the room. He stood, reached between his legs, took the seat of the chair in hand, and scooted it backwards across the carpet.
Now for another digression. I have described Mary as soft-spoken, polite, well-mannered. She was. But when pushed too far, Mary sometimes snapped. She increased in height. She became majestic. She spoke–not loudly–but even more softly, but in majestic, measured tones. She became Maya Angelou, Dame Edith Evans, John Gielgud, and the Incredible Hulk, all rolled into one. She was a most impressive sight.
And when Kerwin and his chair went scooting across the room, Mary snapped.
She strode over to Kerwin and took him oh-so-gently by the nape of the neck.
“Come with me,” she said. She turned and marched Kerwin to the door to the front room.
She had no idea where she was going or what she was going to do when she got there.
Once in the front room, she saw a chair by the front door. She marched Kerwin over to it.
“Sit there and don’t move,” she said.
She waved to the computer teacher to let her know Kerwin was there. Then she walked–majestically–back to the C from H.
When she walked in, the C from H were sitting at their tables. They were hushed. Their eyes were enormous.
Mary walked to the overhead projector, switched it on, pointed to the first transparency, and defined encyclopedia. She talked and talked and talked about the encyclopedia.
The C from H sat and stared with their great big eyes.
Finally, one of the C from H mustered enough courage to speak.
“Where’s Kerwin?” he said.
Mary answered, as if she’d never even heard of an antacid, “Kerwin has been ostracized.”
And in the little silence that followed, she saw one member of the C from H lean toward his neighbor and heard him whisper:
“She castrated him?”
If Mary’s career had a high point, this was it. Because she kept her cool. She got right back to her lecture.
She did not smile. She did not laugh. She did not fall on the floor and have a first-class case of hysterics.
She maintained her dignity.
When the time came, she escorted her class to the back door and shooed them out. Then she packed up her transparencies, shelved some books, did whatever had to be done before leaving campus.
Twenty minutes later, when she walked into the front room to return a reference book, she found Kerwin, still sitting in the chair by the door.
She’d forgotten to dismiss him.
He hadn’t moved a muscle.
I don’t remember who came up with the idea, but I’m sure they knew I was a career co-dependent, constitutionally unable to say, No. Even when No would have been the sensible answer. Even when I knew, somewhere in the mists of my subconscious, that Yes would lead to disaster.
His family lived one small-town block from me. They owned an enormous horse—white, gray, perhaps dappled, I don’t remember exactly—but I do remember driving by their house and seeing in the yard tiny Brandon in the saddle atop that great big horse. I don’t think the child was afraid of anything.
Thus armed with a false sense of security, I read, “Jesus said, ‘These people need a shepherd.'” Then, because I believe all terms should be clearly defined, I paused and said, “Now, do we all know what a shepherd is?”
M. K. Waller 