[nukkad] before it is too late

[adheer <>]

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I'm sometimes asked "Why do you spend so much of your time and 
money talking about kindness to animals when there is so much cruelty to men?" 
I answer: "I am working at the roots." -George T. Angell, reformer (1823-1909)
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He was in the first third grade class I taught at
Saint Mary’s School in Morris, Minn. All 34 of my
students were dear to me, but Mark Eklund was one in a
million.   Very neat in appearance, but had that
happy-to-be-alive attitude  that made even his
occasional mischievousness delightful.   

Mark talked incessantly. I had to remind him again and
again that  talking without permission was not
acceptable. What impressed me so  much, though, was
his sincere response every time I had to correct him 
for misbehaving - “Thank you for correcting me,
Sister!” I didn’t know  what  to make of it at first,
but before long I became accustomed to hearing it 
many times a day.   

One morning my patience was growing thin when Mark
talked once too  often, and then I made a novice
teacher’s mistake. I looked at Mark and  said, If you
say one more word, I am going to tape your mouth
shut!”   It wasn’t ten seconds later when Chuck
blurted out, “Mark is talking again.”  I hadn’t asked
any of the students to help me watch Mark, but since I
had  stated the punishment in front of the class, I
had to act on it.  I remember the scene as if it had
occurred this morning. I walked  to my desk, very
deliberately opened my drawer and took out a roll of 
masking tape. Without saying a word, I proceeded to
Mark’s desk, tore off  two pieces of tape and made a
big X with them over his mouth. I  then returned to
the front of the room.   As I glanced at Mark to see
how he was doing, he winked at me.  That did it! I
started laughing. The class cheered as I walked back
to Mark’s desk, removed the tape, and shrugged my
shoulders. His first  words were, “Thank you for
correcting me, Sister.”   

At the end of the year, I was asked to teach
junior-high math. The  years flew by, and before I
knew it Mark was in my classroom again. He  was more
handsome than ever and just as polite. Since he had to
listen  carefully to my instruction in the “new math,”
he did not talk as much in  ninth grade as he had in
third.   One Friday, things just didn’t feel right. We
had worked hard on a  new concept all week, and I
sensed that the students were frowning,  frustrated
with themselves and edgy with one another. I had to
stop this  crankiness before it got out of hand. So I
asked them to list the  names of the other students in
the room on two sheets of paper, leaving  a  space
between each name. Then I told them to think of the
nicest thing  they  could say about each of their
classmates and write it down. It took the  remainder
of the class period to finish their assignment, and as
the  students left the room, each one handed me the
papers. Charlie smiled.  Mark  said, “Thank you for
teaching me, Sister. Have a good weekend.”   That
Saturday, I wrote down the name of each student on a
separate  sheet of paper, and I listed what everyone
else had said about that  individual.   

On Monday I gave each student his or her list Before
long, entire  class was smiling.   Really?” I heard
whispered. “I never knew that meant anything to
anyone!”  I didn’t know others liked me so much.”   No
one ever mentioned those papers in class again. I
never knew if  they discussed them after class or with
their parents, but it didn’t  matter. The exercise had
accomplished its purpose. The students were  happy 
with themselves and one another again.   

That group of students moved on.   Several years
later, after I returned from vacation, my parents  met
me at the airport. As we were driving home, Mother
asked me the usual  questions about the trip, the
weather, my experiences in general.   There was a lull
in the conversation. Mother gave Dad a sideways glance
 and simply says, “Dad?” My father cleared his throat
as he usually did  before something important. “The
Eklunds called last night,”  he began “Really?” I
said. “I haven’t heard from them in years. I  wonder
how Mark is.”   Dad responded quietly. “Mark was
killed in Vietnam,” he said. “The  funeral is
tomorrow, and his parents would like it if you could
attend.”  To this  day  I can still point to the exact
spot on I-494 where Dad told me about  Mark. 

I  had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin
before.  Mark looked so handsome, so mature. All I
could think at that moment  was, “Mark, I would give
all the masking tape in the world if only you  would
talk to me.”   The church was packed with Mark’s
friends Chuck’s sister sang “The  Battle Hymn of the
Republic.” Why did it have to rain on the day of the 
funeral? It was difficult enough at the graveside. The
pastor said the  usual prayers, and the bugler played
taps.   One by one those who loved Mark took a last
walk by the coffin and  sprinkled it with holy water.
I was the last one to bless the coffin. As  I  stood
there, one of the soldiers who acted as pallbearer
came up  to me. Were you Mark’s math teacher?” he
asked. I nodded as I  continued to stare at the
coffin. “Mark talked about you a lot,” he said.   

After the funeral, most of Mark’s former classmates
headed to Chuck’s  farmhouse for lunch. Mark’s mother
and father were there, obviously  waiting for me. “We
want to show you something, his father said, taking a 
wallet out of his pocket. “They found this on Mark
when he was killed. We  thought you might recognize
it.” Opening the billfold, he carefully  removed  two
worn pieces of notebook paper that had obviously been
taped, folded  and  refolded many times. I knew
without looking that the papers were the ones  on 
which I had listed all the good things each of Mark’s
classmates had said  about him.   “Thank you so much
for doing that,” Mark’s mother said. “As you  can see,
Mark treasured it.” Mark’s classmates started to
gather around  us.  Charlie smiled rather sheepishly
and said, “I still have my list. I keep  it  in the
top drawer of my desk at home.” Chuck’s wife said,
“Chuck  asked me to put his in our wedding album.””I
have mine too,” Marilyn  said.  “It’s in my diary.”
Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into  her
pocketbook, took out her wallet and showed her worn
and frazzled  list to the group. I carry this with me
at all times,” Vicki said without  batting an eyelash.
“I think we all saved our lists.” That’s when I 
finally  sat down and cried. I cried for Mark and for
all his  friends who would never see him again.   

The density of people in society is so thick that we
forget that  life will end one day. And we don’t know
when that one day will be. So  please, tell the people
you love and care for, that they are special and 
important. Tell them, before it is too late.



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