My perception of students is not always 100% accurate. Students can be much more complicated and multidimensional than some teachers give them credit for. Thomas was a quiet boy with a Mona Lisa-like smile. He was always courteous and respectful, and seemed content to blend into the oblivious context of the classroom; but as the school year came to a close, he seemed to have a newfound confidence in himself and in the dynamics of the classroom environment. As we were approaching the last day of school, Tom coyly walked up to my desk and made a rather unusual request. “Mr. S, would you mind if I did an impersonation of you on the last day of school?” In retrospect, I’m surprised that I agreed to go along with Tom’s unusual request. After all, I was a young teacher, and I had to think about my professional image. Notwithstanding, this was an opportunity that I simply could not pass up. What could this timid boy have in mind? I was intrigued to say the least!

On the last day of class, Tom and I exchanged seats. He went on to do a masterful impression that brought tears of laughter to my eyes. It was like watching a miniature version of myself, and his satirical performance was accurate to a T. In my wildest dreams, I never could have imagined such a detailed portrayal of my mannerisms and idiosyncrasies. Tom’s impersonation of me was respectful and, at the same time, hilarious. His portrayal of my speech patterns and unconscious habits left us all laughing and loving every well-conceived detail. In my over 35 years in the classroom, no other student has ever requested or duplicated this feat.

Many years after this day, I encountered Tom as an adult on the steps of our local church. After a brief and sincere conversation, I reminded him of the impersonation that he did more than 25 years before. He told me that he remembered, vaguely. I wondered if he was perhaps too embarrassed to admit his recollection of the performance of a young boy back in the days of junior high. “Could it be that Tom had now returned to his timid and shy ways?” I wondered. He told me that he was now a seminarian and only a few short years away from ordination. I told him to please invite me when he came back to say his first mass and he assured me that he would. I thought to myself, “Imagine, Father Tom, a servant of God. I hope he includes a little humor in his sermons. We could certainly use it. Perhaps even a little anecdote now and then about the days of his youth. God bless him!”

Addendum: I did attend Tom’s first mass, and after it was over he blessed me. We spoke of the impersonation, once again, and he told me that he remembered the day vividly and that he was mortified. He has since been to my house for dinner and our recollection of that last day of school always helps to lighten up our conversation.

Postscript: They say that hindsight is 20/20. Well, I don’t know about that, but it certainly adds clarity and perspective. Tom’s request to temporarily replace his teacher and ascend to the front of the room was foreshadowing of things yet to come. Father Tom now addresses the class (his parishioners) from the altar. He uses his talents to interpret the words of the Lord and I am flattered to even think that he practiced for his vocation (not in the temple) but in a humble classroom. We should have wondered then what gave this young man the confidence and charisma to address his peers and elders. It is also somewhat ironic that our classroom (Room 136) was in the music wing of our school. Tom eventually went on to pursue his studies at the prestigious Juilliard School of Music. Perhaps it was here that he heard his true calling. God bless him and all of his wonderful work. Amen. Amen.

They say truth is stranger than fiction, so it came as no surprise when my wife shrugged off my account of the field trip I’d taken that day with my class into Manhattan. She shook her head, sure it was more of my tomfoolery. “Honest, you can’t make this stuff up,” I said. But let me back up.

A week earlier, there had been a knock on my classroom door. It was Joe, our assistant principal. “Tom, would you be interested in taking your class into Manhattan next week? They want a middle school class to preview and critique a potential new television program.”

“Sounds like a great opportunity, Joe. Please count us in!”

A week later, our bus pulled up to the famous Barbizon Hotel. I had prepped my class and told them to do a good job. “Perhaps they’ll even have us back.”

At the theater door, the network host stopped me. “We really prefer to speak to the students only. Here’s an envelope with $20. Get yourself a little bite to eat. See you in two hours.”

I was disappointed, though impressed by the $20, which beat my weekly allowance. I would have loved to have seen the show and even offered my opinion, but “herein lies the rub.” They obviously wanted unbiased youth without adult direction.

So off I went for a stroll along the sidewalk across from Central Park. I didn’t know Manhattan well, and the beautiful stores of the Upper East Side felt surreal. “This is really quite a nice place,” I thought.

Suddenly a voice called out, “Mr. Schenkel, what are you doing here?” It was Michelle D., a former student, now an attractive young woman with beautiful red hair. We caught up on all things Garden City until she said, “Why don’t we have a cup of coffee? My ride isn’t due for another half hour.”

Michelle, it turned out, was on her way to Paris on business. Beautifully dressed and quite the lady, she made wonderful company as we sat under a Cinzano umbrella. I had been rescued in Manhattan by a lovely lady. So much for the “damsel in distress” myth.

When I reached for my $20, she pushed the envelope back. “It’s my treat! This was such a great encounter. I’ve got to catch my flight to Paris!” She hugged me, kissed me on the cheek, and her cab pulled away.

I returned to the Barbizon just as the studio doors were opening. Everyone was smiling. The students had been given lunch and healthy snacks in exchange for their opinions. On the bus ride home, a curious student asked, “So what did you do, Mr. Schenkel?”

“Well, I took a stroll along Central Park and met a beautiful lady with gorgeous red hair. We had coffee under an umbrella, she kissed me on the cheek, and she flew off to Paris.”

My students weren’t buying it. That night, my wife asked about the trip too. “They only wanted students and gave me $20 for lunch. So I took a stroll, had coffee with a beautiful redhead, and she flew off to Paris.” She didn’t buy it either, though she did ask about the $20.

Looking back now, no teacher on earth would hand his class over to a television network and go take a walk. But I can’t say I regret the coffee.

Addendum: Dear Michelle, if you haven’t moved to Paris, let’s have coffee again and “make like Heinz and catch up.” This time the drinks are on me. You see, I still have that $20 bill (lol).

As a small child, I can remember sitting in church and listening to a rather perplexing gospel reading. A day laborer came along and made an agreement with a farmer to work from 9 to 5 for a particular wage. Both men shook hands and the laborer proceeded to do his job in the field. Later on in the day, another worker joined the man in the field, and they worked side by side. After several inquiries, the original worker found out that both men were earning the exact same pay, even though he had started earlier in the day. The worker stormed back to the farmer to register a protest. The farmer responded to his complaint by asking, “Did we make an agreement and shake on it?” The worker said, “Yes, but…!” The farmer continued, “Did I violate this agreement in any way?” The worker replied, “No, but…!” The farmer responded, “Then you have no reason to complain. I did not break the contract.” As the reading came to an end, the priest reminded us that life is not always fair. Some people are given more, and some people are given less. Some people are challenged by life and others seemingly not. Simply put, one size does not fit all.

Students are constantly looking for everyday life to mirror the perfect balance of the gyroscope. They view each and every situation in light of themselves. “Hey, that’s not fair! Why does he get a turn and not me? Why can she write on the board and not me?” Sometimes I attempt to explain to them that one size does not fit all. Some children (like flowers in a garden) need a little more TLC. They simply do not have, at this time, the ability to succeed without some outside help and encouragement. Other students have been blessed with the ability and confidence to flourish on their own. At times, this explanation will succeed and suffice, but most of the time it does not do the trick. My response, therefore, becomes, “If you want fair, go to Danbury!” This reference to a well-known state fair in Danbury, Connecticut, worked for several decades. Then, like all things in this world, it fell subject to the passing of time. The once famous fairgrounds of Danbury had become too valuable for an annual state fairground. The property was sold (at least I’m told) and made into a huge shopping mall. When a student informed me of this one day in class, my response was a simple one, “You see, you can’t even get fair in Danbury these days!” Life is certainly not fair. We should learn to count our blessings and utilize our own God-given talents. Try not to envy the assistance given to those who truly need it.

Tommy was a pistol, “Peck’s Bad Boy”, the class clown, and a lovable kid. He had a mop of unkempt, blonde hair, a twinkle in his eye and an incredible smile. You always knew (or thought) that he was up to something. He exemplified the classic case of the student who possessed innate brightness but, as a result of the minimum effort expended, he lived in a world of mediocrity. Nonetheless, Tom managed to get by. He made us laugh, and he helped me to realize that teachers must earn their daily wage.

I remember vividly the day that I pointed out the fact that Tom had on two completely different socks (one white and one black). I said, “Tom, that’s quite a pair of socks you have on!” He replied with lightning rapidity, “Thanks, I have another pair at home just like them.” His ebullient wit made me realize that I was dealing with a bright boy. The year raced by and Tom, accompanied by his lacrosse stick, muddled along doing as little as possible. It was not uncommon for Tom to show up to class without his homework assignment. I was not thrilled by Tom’s lack of enthusiasm, but I did have another 150 students to worry about.

At this time, my younger sister was working as a nurse in a local hospital. Her job really seemed to be taking a toll on her. As a novice nurse, she found the emotional impact of caring for seriously ill patients more than she could bear. One patient in particular seemed to weigh heavily on her heart long after the end of the workday. This patient was a 17-year-old girl with terminal cancer. She was a beautiful blonde-headed girl with everything to live for but only months left to live. Every day, her suffering became more intense, and my sister’s job became more difficult. My mother, also a nurse, would listen to her talk about how sad this situation was. She would say, “Mom, that could be me. We’re practically the same age!” By mid-March, the young girl came to the end of her suffering.

The following day, my mother called me and told me what had transpired. At school that morning I received a note telling me that Tom would be out of school for the remainder of the week. I went to the guidance office to find out what the problem was. They told me that Tom’s sister had just passed away after a bout with cancer. I said to myself, “Can this be my sister’s patient?” That night my sister confirmed my suspicion. The beautiful young girl and Tom shared the same last name.

Back-to-school night arrived, and Tom’s mother appeared harried and barely able to go through the motions. I pushed aside the grade book and spoke to her straight from my heart. I shared with her the coincidence that my sister had been her daughter’s nurse, and then offered her my most sincere condolences. When she finally got around to asking me about her son, Tom, I knew exactly what to say. “Let me tell you about your son, Tom.” I told her of a young man trying to do the best that he could do. I shared with her the sock story. I told her that Tom’s love for his sister was so deep that he kept all the pain within himself. In fact, he masked the pain with whatever courage he could summon up. I told his mom that he had missed several homework assignments but not once had he used his family crisis as an excuse for his own deficiency. “You see, Tom loved his sister too much to use her illness as an excuse.” I told the mother that her son, in my eyes, was a hero. He had shouldered all of the pain, dealt with it as best as he could, and never once did he use it as an excuse for himself. “You see, Tom is really quite a heroic boy!” Tom’s mother actually managed a soft smile and thanked me before she left the room.

I realized at that moment how much more goes into teaching beyond the realm of tests and homework. I could now, in hindsight, see the pain in Tom’s eyes hidden behind his halfhearted smile. I knew now why his socks didn’t match, his hair was unkempt, and his homework was undone. He had not failed to meet his requirements. He had done them exceedingly well despite the cross his family had to bear. He had managed to put on two mismatched socks, even with a broken heart.

In retrospect, I still find it hard to believe. As a young teacher, I was anxious to anchor my popularity with my students and I had developed a good reputation with the school administrators so they knew my intent was a good one. With confidence and conviction, I knocked on the principal’s door and asked Dr. G. for a few minutes of his time.

Without hesitation, I laid my cards on the table. I told him that I had an idea that I wanted to run by him. “Many of my students have household pets (not all). Some have said how great it would be if they could bring in a pet for a ‘show and tell’ public speaking presentation.” I told Dr. G. that all pets (if he permitted) would be accompanied by a parent and quickly ushered away. Also, no two pets would be allowed in the building at the same time. Perhaps it was my enthusiasm or the fact that it would involve parents participating in the presentation that moved him to say, “Yes.” We decided that the cafeteria would be the perfect place for the presentations. It was removed from the academic area and parents could literally drive up to the door. This was agreed upon and the other details were discussed.

Now, let me reiterate from the outset that not all students had pets. In fact, the majority of students did not. We had our fair share of collectibles, sports equipment, photography, rock collections, stamp collections, etc. There was no doubt, though, that all students were thrilled when permission was given to bring in and present their beloved pets.

It was quite obvious that the students were excited and enthusiastic to be out of the classroom. Everyone enjoys a change of pace and a change of venue, but the excitement was almost palpable when the pets started to arrive. The variety of pets also added to our enjoyment. Yes, we had our share of cats and dogs, hamsters and rabbits; but things started to step up a notch with the arrival of a pet boa constrictor. He proved to be quite harmless, nonetheless, students were reluctant to drape him around their shoulders. Little did I realize, though, that the best was yet to come.

I received a call from a mother with an interesting request. Lenora, and her family, had recently arrived from Texas. Up until now, she had been a quiet and unassuming girl, but my impression was about to change. Mrs. Bell told me over the phone that Lenora was a show horse rider, and that she wanted to show her horse, Clover, to the class. Mrs. Bell assured me that she would pull up to the field outside the cafeteria, and that after her speech, she would place Clover back into the trailer and drive away. So convincing was she on the phone and so charming with her Texas drawl, that I told her it sounded like a wonderful opportunity for the class.

On the appointed day, Mrs. Bell arrived (trailer in tow) and we exited from the cafeteria and took a short walk onto the adjoining athletic field. The presentation was a triumph. From the outset, the students were enthralled and Lenora won our hearts and admiration for her equestrian prowess. Indeed, it was a resounding success, or so I thought.

It was later in the day that I was summoned to the principal’s office. I knew from the moment that I stepped into the office that all was not quiet on the administrative front. “Tom, when I granted you permission to have your students bring their pets to school, I had no idea that someone would bring in a horse!” I immediately apologized and told him that I probably should have sought out further approval but I assured him that it was without mishap and had been a resounding success.

“I know, Tom, but the other teachers said that they thought the school would tip over with all the students looking out the windows!” I wanted to respond with a remark about how the teachers should have better discipline or more interesting lessons, but I thought better of it. I apologized again, and assured him that we were all done with our public speaking assignments. Even though Dr. G. knew that I had only the best of intentions, it was quite obvious that I was no longer the teacher’s (or the principal’s) pet.

John’s father was a great dad and he wanted only the best for his son. He wanted John to fit into the mainstream and participate as much as he could in the school environment. He requested it, he demanded it, and he usually got it. Back at that time, special education was only a blip on the scholastic radar. Someone once told me, “If you don’t advocate for your child, then who will?” I believe in that philosophy and so did John’s father. As a result of his efforts, John was able to participate in two school sports, wrestling and football. I can still remember John struggling in the boys locker room while trying to get on his football equipment. The head coach came up with a brilliant strategy to assist John with this arduous task. He selected the biggest star on the team and he asked him to become John’s assistant. This boy, the team captain, would stay with John and assist him when necessary. There was something very special about watching the star player assist the neediest player on the team. It was a beautiful thing to watch and I do believe that it was mutually beneficial for both boys. The ancient Romans had an interesting way of welcoming home victorious generals. As the general was paraded through the streets on a golden chariot, a servant would ring a tiny bell and whisper in his ear, “Remember, you are only a mortal.” Today, we call this being grounded. To this boy’s credit, he took hold of his new responsibility and ran with it like a true champion. This coach knew what he was doing both on and off the field. Unless we forget, it is important to remember that John was more than just an athlete, he was the mayor. When his pads were on and his jersey and helmet were in place, he would give the captain a high five and run out of the locker room. Once he was out in the light of day, John would strut (not walk) across the field and you could sense his pride. From a distance, you might mistake him for Joe “Willie” Namath.

My soccer team played and practiced right alongside the football field. This made it easy for me to keep an eye on John as the season progressed. It was on the last home game of the season that John and his coach provided me with one of my greatest sports memories ever. The football team was winning the game by a score of 28-0. The coach easily could have run up the score, but instead he allowed his third-string squad to play for the second half. The score was now 28 to 14. He had given the opponents a chance to win back their pride and self-esteem. The two coaches (I learned after the game) had spoken together at halftime. The final score would remain 28 to 14 (a respectable game for both teams), but one more play would be run. John was to be given the ball and allowed to run for a touchdown. He was, of course, unaware of any special arrangement. As far as John was concerned, it was business as usual, and the coach wanted him on the field. “The coach needs me!” he shouted to his father who was sitting in the bleachers. John was given the ball and he ran for at least 40 yards into the end zone. The crowd went wild, and John jumped up and down with his hands raised high over his head. He high-fived anyone and everyone, it really didn’t matter. Fans, teammates, and even the opponents joined in the celebration. I shot a quick glance to the bleachers and I could see John’s father wiping tears of joy from his eyes. He applauded his son, the pride and joy of his life, and shouted over and over, “Way to go, John! Way to go!” It was at the end of this moment when I realized that he was not the only one crying. I dried my eyes and continued to clap my hands.

If ever there was a win-win situation on the athletic field, this was it! The emotional impact of the moment stays with me to this very day. It was with great sadness that I heard (several years after this day) that John’s father had passed away. I am so glad that they shared the special moment together, and I am so glad that I was there to see his father’s pride in a very special son.

William was switched into my math class. He had been earmarked as a child whose father had died on “9-11”. I was given a short synopsis of the rationale that brought about this change while I was down in the guidance office, and I assured them that I would do whatever I could. William looked exactly the way I would have looked under similar circumstances. He was barely functional and doing his level best to cope with his tragic loss. He was performing one of life’s most difficult challenges, he was showing up. I strategically placed William directly in front of my desk. The seat was already vacant (I wonder why?) so it was a natural place of inhabitance.

At first, William spent most of his time in class with his head on his desk. It’s difficult to believe that anyone would not find the last period of the day to be interesting, especially in my math class (lol). Bit by bit, I started to create tiny episodes of dialogue between the two of us, but nothing very profound. We found common ground, though, in the area of sports. I rooted for the Mets and William, like his dad, rooted for the Yankees. I liked the N.Y. Islanders and William, of course, liked the Rangers. These harmless rivalries gave us an opportunity to have some boyish fun as we playfully taunted each other about our respective teams. William’s work, though, was still in jeopardy. His tests were only half done and his notebook (homework) was virtually vacant. Sometimes his notebook wasn’t even in class. I mentioned the notebook to him one day and he started bringing it to class (a small victory on my part). The inevitable day came when I kept William after class for a few brief words. You could see that he was uncomfortable and anxious to join his friends for the walk home. “William,” I said, “I just want to let you know that I am always available if you need me for anything.” He looked at me with a peculiar glance. He knew and I knew that was all I needed to say. With typical middle school acuity he replied, “Is that it? I’ll miss my friends.” I responded, “Yes, William!” and he flew out the door with an enthusiasm rarely seen in the classroom.

Observing William and his daily struggle to survive and cope was unsettling. He really couldn’t function on an academic level for long periods of time. His mind would start to wander and his head would fall down on his folded arms. My only way of bringing him back into the lesson was to call on him with a specific question. I usually tried to select a question that I thought he could answer. Somehow, William usually managed to rise to the moment and respond with an appropriate answer. This process I repeated whenever I saw him drifting away to that other world that had ceased to exist. He seemed to handle these occasional questions fairly well and seemed to accept the fact that I would keep getting him involved. We were starting to make a little progress, but William found it almost impossible to keep up with homework and test performance.

On the evening of parent teacher conferences I discussed this concern with his mother only after I praised him and her for their strength and courage. His mother responded, “We have no choice. We must go on with our lives.” That being said, I assured her that I was well aware of her son’s ability. I made this statement based on his placement scores and William’s ability to answer my questions, despite his inability to stay focused on the lesson. My gut feeling was that he was starting to slowly regain his interest in the learning process. Lastly, I told his mom that I would not let her son fail for the year and I assured her that I would do my level best to get him back on track. She thanked me and after a warm handshake we parted, I guess the guidance department knew what they were doing. William needed a “nice guy” in this time of crisis, and I would not let them down!