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shopping malls for just the right dress for that special occasion? She wouldn't show you, but I'm sure she'd like you to know that she picked that dress because of the way it unfurled as she danced in front of the mirrors in the clothing store. The minute she tried it on, she knew she'd found her special dress. I wonder if you noticed. Just a word from you would make that dress all the more wondrous.
Her shoes tell you a lot about Beth and a lot about her family. At least they're worth a minute of your time. Yes, they're blue shoes with one strap. Solid, well-made shoes, not too stylish, you know the kind. What you don't know is how we argued about getting the kind of shoes she said all the girls would be wearing. We said no to plastic shoes in purple or pink or orange.
Beth was worried that the other kids would laugh at her baby shoes. In the end she tried the solid blue ones on and, with a smile, told us she always did like strap shoes. That's the first-born, eager to please. She's like the shoessolid and reliable. How she'd love it if you mentioned those straps.
I hope you quickly notice that Beth is shy. She'll talk her head off when she gets to know you, but you'll have to make the first move. Don't mistake her quietness for lack of intelligence. Beth can read any children's book you put in front of her. She learned reading the way it should be taught. She learned it naturally, snuggled up in her bed with her mother and me reading her stories at nap time, at bedtime, at cuddling times throughout the day. To Beth, books are synonymous with good times and loving family. Please don't change her love of reading by making the learning of it a burdensome chore. It has taken us all her life to instill in her the joy of books and learning.
Did you know that Beth and her friends played school all summer in preparation for their first day? I should tell
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you about her class. Everybody in her class wrote something every day. She encouraged the other kids who said they couldn't think of anything to write about. She helped them with their spelling. She came to me upset one day. She said you might be disappointed in her because she didn't know how to spell "subtraction." She can do that now. If you would only ask her. Her play school this summer was filled with positive reinforcement and the quiet voice of a reassuring teacher. I hope that her fantasy world will be translated into reality in your classroom.
I know you're busy with all the things that a teacher does at the beginning of the school year, so I'll make this letter short. But ! did want you to know about the night before that first day. We got her lunch packed in the Care Bear lunch box. We got the backpack ready with the school supplies. We laid out her special dress and shoes, read a story, and then I shut off the lights. I gave her a kiss and started to walk out of the room. She called me back in and asked me if I knew that God wrote letters to people and put them in their minds.
I told her I never had heard that, but I asked if she had received a letter. She had. She said the letter told her that her first day of school was going to be one of the best days of her life. I wiped away a tear as I thought: Please let it be so.
Later that night I discovered a note Beth left me. It read, "I'm so lucky to have you for a dad."
Well, Beth's first-grade teacher, I think you're so lucky to have her as a student. We're all counting on you. Every one of us who left our children and our dreams with you that day. As you take our youngsters by the hand, stand a little taller and walk a little prouder. Being a teacher carries with it an awesome responsibility.
Dick Abrahamson
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Mr. Washington
One day in 11th grade, I went into a classroom to wait for a friend of mine. When I went into the room, the teacher, Mr. Washington, suddenly appeared and asked me to go to the board to write something, to work something out. I told him that I couldn't do it. And he said, "Why not?"
I said, "Because I'm not one of your students."
He said, "It doesn't matter. Go to the board anyhow."
I said, "I can't do that." He said, "Why not?"
And I paused because I was somewhat embarrassed. I said, "Because I'm Educable Mentally Retarded."
He came from behind his desk and he looked at me and he said, "Don't ever say that again. Someone's opinion of you does not have to become your reality."
It was a very liberating moment for me. On one hand, I was humiliated because the other students laughed at me. They knew that I was in Special Education. But on the other hand, I was liberated because he began to bring to my attention that I did not have to live within the context of what another person's view of me was.
And so Mr. Washington became my mentor. Prior to this experience, I had failed twice in school. I was identified as Educable Mentally Retarded in the fifth grade, was put back from the fifth grade into the fourth grade, and
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failed again when I was in the eighth grade. So this person made a dramatic difference in my life.
I always say that he operates in the consciousness of Goethe, who said, "Look at a man the way that he is, he only becomes worse. But look at him as if he were what he could be, and then he becomes what he should be." Like Calvin Lloyd, Mr. Washington believed that "Nobody rises to Iow expectations." This man always gave students the feeling that he had high expectations for them and we strove, all of the students strove, to live up to what those expectations were.
One day, when I was still a junior, I heard him giving a speech to some graduating seniors. He said to them, "You have greatness within you. You have something special. If just one of you can get a glimpse of a larger vision of yourself of who you really are, of what it is you bring to the planet, of your specialness, then in a historical context, the world will never be the same again. You can make your parents proud. You can make your school proud. You can make your community proud. You can touch millions of people's lives." He was talking to the seniors, but it seemed like that speech was for me.
I remember when they gave him a standing ovation. Afterwards, I caught up to him in the parking lot and I said, "Mr. Washington, do you remember me? I was in the auditorium when you were talking to the seniors."
He said, "What were you doing there? You are a junior."
I said, "I know. But that speech you were giving, I heard your voice coming through the auditorium doors. That speech was for me, Sir. You said they had greatness within them. I was in that auditorium. Is there greatness within me, Sir?"
He said, "Yes, Mr. Brown."
"But what about the fact that I failed English and math and history, and I'm going to have to go to summer
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school. What about that, Sir? I'm slower than most kids. I'm not as smart as my brother or my sister who's going to the University of Miami.''
"It doesn't matter. It just means that you have to work harder. Your grades don't determine who you are or what you can produce in your life."
"I want to buy my mother a home."
"It's possible, Mr. Brown. You can do that." And he turned to walk away again.
"Mr. Washington?"
"What do you want now?"
"Uh, I'm the one, Sir. You remember me, remember my name. One day you're gonna hear it. I'm gonna make you proud. I'm the one, Sir."
School was a real struggle for me. I was passed from one grade to another because I was not a bad kid. I was a nice kid; I was a fun kid. I made people laugh. I was polite. I was respectful. So teachers would pass me on, which was not helpful to me. But Mr. Washington made demands on me. He made me accountable. But he enabled me to believe that I could handle it, that I could do it.
He became my instructor my senior year, even though I was Special Education. Normally, Special Ed students don't take Speech and Drama, but they made special provisions for me to be with him. The principal realized the kind of bonding that had taken place and the impact that he'd made on me because I had begun to do well academically. For the first time in my life I made the honor roll. I wanted to travel on a trip with the drama department and
you had to be on the honor roll in order to make the trip out of town. That was a miracle for me!
Mr. Washington restructured my own picture of who I am. He gave me a larger vision of myself, beyond my mental conditioning and my circumstances.
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Years later, I produced five specials that appeared on public television. I had some friends call him when my program, "You Deserve," was on the educational television channel in Miami. I was sitting by the phone waiting when he called me in Detroit. He said, "May I speak to Mr. Brown, please?"
"Who's calling?"
"You know who's calling."
"Oh, Mr. Washington, it's you."
"You were the one, weren't you?"
"Yes, Sir, I was."
Les brown
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Faith, Hope and Love
At the age of 14 I was sent away to Cheshire Academy, a boarding school in Connecticut for boys who had problems at home. My problem was my alcoholic mother, who had torn apart our family with her dysfunctional behavior. After my parents divorced, I baby-sat my mother until I failed every course in eighth grade. My father and a school headmaster decided that a disciplinary boarding school that excelled in sports (and was a good distance from my alcoholic mother) might give me a chance to graduate from high school.
At orientation my freshman year at Cheshire, the last man to speak was the head disciplinarianFred O'Leary. He was a former All-American football player at Yale, a very large man. He had jowls and a huge neck; he looked like the Yale mascot "The Bulldog." As he moved his large frame forward toward the microphone to speak, everyone got real quiet. An upper-classman next to me said, "Kid, don't ever let this man see you. Cross the street or whatever. Just don't let this man know that you exist!"
Mr. O'Leary's speech to the school assembly that night was short and to the point: "Don't, I repeat, don't go off campus, don't smoke, don't drink. No contact with town girls. If you break these rules, there will be hell to pay, plus I will personally kick your ass? Just when I thought
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he was finished, in a much lower tone, he said, "If you ever have any problems, the door to my office is open to you." How that stuck in my mind!
As the school year wore on, my mother's drinking got worse. She called me in my dorm at all hours of the day and night. With her slurred words, she'd beg me to drop out and move back home with her. She promised she would quit drinking and we could go to Florida on vacation, and on and on. I loved her. It was hard to say no to her and my insides turned upside-down with every call. I felt guilt. I felt shame. I was very, very confused.
One afternoon while in freshman English, I was thinking about the call from my mother the night before and my emotions got the better of me. I could feel the tears coming fast, so I asked my professor if I could be excused.
"Excused for what?" asked my professor.
"To see Mr. O'Leary," I answered. My classmates froze and stared at me.
"What have you done, Peter? Maybe I can help," my professor suggested.
"No! I want to go to Mr. O'Leary's office now," I said. As I left class, all I could think of were those words, "My door is open."
Mr. O'Leary's office was off a large lobby in the main hall. The door to his office had a big glass pane so you could see inside. Whenever someone was in serious trouble, he would pull them inside his office, slam the door and lower the window shade. Often you could hear him yelling, "You were seen smoking behind the town fire station last night with another guy and that town girl from the coffee shop!" There would be hell to pay for that unfortunate soul.
There was a line outside his office at all times: academy boys with all kinds of problems, sitting there with their tails between their legs. As I took my place in line, the other boys asked me what I had done wrong.
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"Nothing," I said.
"Are you crazy? Get out of here, now!" they cried, but I could think of nowhere else to go.
Finally, it was my turn. Mr. O'Leary's office door opened and I was staring straight into the jowls of discipline. I was shaking and feeling foolish, but I had this crazy hunch that something or someone had put me in front of this manthe most feared man on campus. I looked up; our eyes met.
"What are you here for?" he barked.
"At orientation you said your door was open if anyone had a problem," I stammered.
"Come in," he said as he pointed to a big green arm chair and pulled the shade down over the door. Then he walked behind his desk and sat down and looked at me.
I looked up, opened my mouth and the tears ran down my face. "My mother is an alcoholic. She gets drunk and calls me on the phone. She wants me to quit school and move home. I don't know what to do. I'm scared, afraid. Please don't think I'm crazy or a fool."
I buried my head in my knees and began to cry uncontrollably. Oblivious to my surroundings, I didn't hear this large, ex-athlete move quietly from behind his desk, come around and stand beside the little adolescent boy sobbing in the big green chair. One of God's lost children in a dark, cold place.
Then it happenedone of those miracles that God makes happen through people. Mr. O'Leary's large hand gently touched my shoulder; his thumb rested on my neck.
Softly, I heard this dreaded giant of discipline say, "Son, I know how you feel. You see, I'm an alcoholic, too. I will do everything I can to help you and your mother. I will have my friends in Alcoholics Anonymous make contact with her today."
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In that instant, I had a moment of clarity. I knew things were going to get better, and I wasn't scared anymore. With his hand resting on my shoulder, I felt I had been touched by God, by Christ, by Moses. Faith, Hope and Love became real to me for the first time. I could see them, taste them, and I was filled with faith, hope and love for everyone around me. The most feared man on campus became my secret friend, and I checked in with him religiously, once a week. Whenever I passed his table at lunch time, I got a quick glance and friendly wink. My heart soared with pride that this feared man of discipline took such a gentle, loving interest in me.
I reached out and, in my moment of need . . . He was there.
Peter Spelke with a little help from Dawn Spelke and Sam Dawson
The name Fred O'Leary is a pseudonym. The name has been changed to protect the privacy of the actual individual.
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The Shoes
What do we live for if not to make life less difficult for each other?
George Eliot
During the 1930s, things were really rough in all the mining and manufacturing places everywhere. In my old hometown in western Pennsylvania, men by the thousands walked the streets looking for work. My older brothers were among these. Not that the family went hungry, mind you, but we didn't eat much.
Since I was one of the younger boys in a large family, all my clothes were hand-me-downs. Long pants would be bobbed knee length, and the cut-off legs used to patch or reinforce the cut-down trousers. Shirts would be made over. But shoesshoes were a different story. Shoes would be worn right down to the ground. They would be literally worn out, being cast aside only when the bare feet came through the leather.
I can remember that before getting the oxfords, I wore a pair of shoes with split sides and loose soles completely free at the front that made slapping sounds as I walked. I cut two bands off an old inner tube and slipped them over my toes to hold those shoe soles down.
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I had a sister then. She and her husband had moved west and settled down in Colorado. When she could, she helped out by sending us their old clothes.