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.