Radical Eclecticity

At the end of February, I went to visit my school for the first time since the accident. I arrived just in time for the tail end of the assembly they had to honor the students in the sixth grade who made the honor roll. As I entered the cafeteria, the students initiated a standing ovation for me. The amazing part was, the teachers didn’t tell them I was coming, didn’t start the cheering, and didn’t prompt them to applaud. They just spontaneously rose to their feet and cheered for me for what seemed like five full minutes.

I’ll be honest: I cried. That was only the beginning of the day, too. I still maintain that the sense of community, support, and encouragement that this public school generated rivals that generated by a lot of churches. I have the best coworkers and students anywhere. Granted, my opinion may be a little biased, but I stand by it none the less.

I went around and visited several classrooms so that I could see my students and thank them for their cards and support. While I was in each classroom, I fielded a few questions from the students. They’d ask things like, “Are you scared to be in a car now?”

“No. I still have exactly the same chances as I did before, and the same chances as anyone else, to be in another serious accident.”

“What happened to the other guy?”

“I don’t know, actually. They tell me he was in a room down the hall from me in the hospital, but no one has had any contact with him since then. I hope he’s doing well and that he isn’t carrying around any guilt, but I’m not going to try and find him.”

“Are you going to teach seventh grade next year?”

I have to admit, this question inflated my ego a bit, but I responded, “Sorry, probably not. Unless we have a shortage of seventh grade teachers and extra sixth grade teachers, I’ll most likely teach sixth grade again next year. That is really the principal’s decision, anyway. I’ll teach what he tells me to.”

One of the classrooms got particularly chatty. That teacher uses a lot of discussion in her teaching, anyway, so they were very comfortable posing questions to, and in front of, one another. They wanted to know about my injuries, my surgeries, my capabilities, my limitations, etc. Their questions indicated a good deal of thought. They recognized what I had been through as a significant and somewhat unique experience and they were asking meaningful questions about it. The one that really gave me pause to think, though, was when one student asked me, “If you had three wishes, what would they be?”

I thought a bit before I responded. A serious, thoughtful question requires a serious, thoughtful answer. “First, I would wish that I’d be well enough to come back to work tomorrow. Next, I’d wish to have my voice back to the way it was before the accident. I use the pitch and inflection of my voice to convey a lot of meaning when I speak, and I want that back. Lastly, I would wish that people everywhere would stop hurting each other.”

The questioner was thoughtful for a second and then asked, “Why wouldn’t you just wish that the accident never happened?”

“Because everything happens for a reason. If the accident never happened, and I never had this experience, I never would have learned everything I’ve learned because of it. I’d never know how precious life is, or at least, not in the way I know it now, and I never would have known just how many people really care for me and how much they care.”

The class fell silent for a minute or two while the room was filled with thoughtful looks. Then, one after another, the students started commenting on things that had happened to them that seemed like bad things at the time, but that good lessons or good results came from. They really got it. In sixth grade, they grabbed on to a concept that I didn’t learn until I was thirty. That was a significant moment for me, and yet another example of why I love what I do.