Marco*

Marco*

By Kathy Dillingham

Sometimes when you are a teacher, you become the student. Today, Marco was mine.

Marco is a young man who attends the school where I teach. Venture School is an alternative high school for students in grades kindergarten through Adult Education. They can enroll in either our Home Study Program or like the majority, our Independent Study Program. The students come each week and meet with their teacher for approximately one hour. They are expected to have completed about 20 hours of work at home. They correct their homework, take tests, watch related movies at their weekly appointments and can come attend additional math or writing labs for extra support or take small group classes for painting, ceramics and more. Frequently students find that they come in to meet with their teacher on one day and to take tests on another. Sometimes getting to school is the biggest obstacle students face. Marco was no exception.

Marco is a twin. His brother attends a charter school in another county. His brother lives with his father who can really only financially support one of the twin boys. His mother, now remarried, is working full time and supporting Marco, his younger siblings, her diabetic husband and I believe, at least one grandmother.  Money is in short supply.

Marco chose to switch schools in his senior year so he could help support his mother’s household. He began with a seemingly manageable course load with hopes to graduate this spring. After we had our initial meeting where curriculum was chosen, Marco was enthusiastic in his gentle and mild-mannered way.

For our first follow-up meeting I noticed Marco’s penmanship was precise. He wrote in nearly all capital letters and his work was neat and thorough. He did well on the tests and he looked confident. Soon however, his attendance became spotty, at best.

Upon investigation, Marco reluctantly shared that the cost of the travel expenses to and from Venture were considered very prohibitive for he and his family. Through a little creative thought and legwork, I was able to find a generous individual who was willing to donate “transportation scholarship money” (i.e., “bus and BART fair”) on a weekly basis, totaling nearly $15 roundtrip. The caveat was that Marco had to attend school each week in order to receive the next week’s bus and BART fair. To insure Marco’s integrity, I had him do an Internet search and write an email proposal with the exact costs involved. But first we had to set up an email account for him. He had to learn how to log on, create an account and write an email in “business letter” format to outline the needed funds.

To keep both individuals anonymous, I had them email me. I then would delete names, email addresses and any personal information.

            And so we began. Marco wrote Mr. “X.”

Mr. “X” wrote Marco back. He explained that he understood the obstacles that Marco faced, as his father was a steel mill worker. He explained that through hard work and dedication the American dream of education is still alive and well. As Marco walked into my workstation for our scheduled appointment, I was excited to have him read the email. That is, until I looked at Marco.

“Marco, you look so sad. Are you okay?”

He began to cry softly as he entered. He sat down in the chair and composed himself. He had just walked in from an uncharacteristically cold winter commute. He had on a thin black coat and jeans that was topped off with a black knit hat. As he continued to cry, he pulled the bill of the hat down to the tip of his nose and he slumped down into his chair.

“I’m not going to lie. I did not get my work done this week,” he softly stated, followed by silent tears.

                       

“Forget about the work right now. What happened Marco?”

            “My girlfriend was raped on Monday.”

            When you go through graduate coursework to become a teacher, you discuss many situations that can occur with students throughout your career. Suspected abuse, neglect, hunger, and more. When I had my training over 20 years ago they did not discuss cutting, anorexia, and bulimia, Oxycontin addictions, Lime disease, Celiac Disease and other conditions that teachers face today. They also did not discuss what to do when a boy’s girlfriend has been raped.

            As the morning progressed I listened to Marco. As he told his brief version, he cried a little more. I realized I had no tissue as I wiped my eyes and nose too. Together we met with one of our school’s counselors. We were able to give him phone numbers for the Rape Crisis Hotline, Suicide Prevention and scheduled an appointment for a follow-up appointment the next week. He had not slept all week due to the stress of being his girlfriend’s only confidant.

            We do not have a nurse’s office at my campus. There is no place for students to lie down and sleep. We brainstormed what he could do, including sleeping on BART, if needed. Soon we decided the best course was to continue the day by working a little bit, to get his mind off of the stress.

            He took tests. He watched a few short clips and had a few moments of welcomed normalcy.

            I remembered the email and asked Marco if he had checked his account. He explained that due to the stress of his week he had been unable to do so. Marco then pulled out his folder and read his notes recalling how to open his newly created email account. As he read the email from his “transportation scholarship” mentor, his eyes welled up again.

            Mine did too.

            “This man sounds real intelligent.”

            “He is. And he believes in you. He wants to see you graduate from high school this June. So do I.”

            “What happens now?”

            We discussed how the system would work, that each week that Marco came to school, he’d get the next week’s transportation monies. With a subtle suggestion from me, he slowly and carefully crafted a thank you email. He asked what he should say. I told him to just be honest.

He wrote, “Thank you so much for this opportunity to further my education. I'm sorry it sounds blunt and so shallow but this week has been very rough for me. I still sincerely mean my gratitude.”

I said, “You came today so I have the money to give you.”

            “No, I don’t need it. I saw someone who can give me a ride home today.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “Yes. What’s this?” he asked while looking at the Pennies for Patients jelly jar on my desk.

            I explained about the Leukemia Lymphoma Society donation that our school was collecting. He asked what Lymphoma was, which I explained further, sharing how that was what my father died from two years ago.                       

            Marco reached into his pocket with his hand. He slowly pulled it out and held his fist over the glass jar. He released the small bits of change into the glass container.

            I had to look away as he gathered his book, binder and papers to put in his backpack. My eyes were welling up and I had a lump in my throat. I did not want him to see me cry, again, for the third time today.

            Today, I witnessed greatness. Marco was my teacher.

*Marco is not his “real” name.

The Equalizer

Cancer is an equalizer of sorts. It doesn’t matter if you are rich, poor, black or white, you can still have a loved one develop cancer. Your mother, your father, sister, brother, friend or child can get it. I lost my dad to a blood cancer two years ago. My children’s stepmom lost her father to a combination of degenerative diseases the year before I did. Sadly, it is one thing that has united us, in a way that someone who isn’t a member of the “cancer” club can’t really understand or comprehend. Those of us left behind are constantly trying to live with a “new kind of normal.”

I will never forget stopping by Lynn and Greg’s house after her father had died and mine was close to doing so. I knew the time was near. Carolyn, or “Lynn” to insiders, asked how my dad was doing. I listed the most recent developments and eventually the conversation turned to Lynn sharing about her dad. She was very empathetic and within moments I was asking details about her father’s last moments. She started to slowly recount the last week of his life matter-of-factly but as the retelling continued she soon began to cry and choke out the words. My eyes welled up, and soon I felt a familiar lump in my own throat and a mirror of tears begin to gently flow down my face matching the ones on hers. Eventually I crossed the room, and in my mind’s eye we embraced, sharing in our sorrow. My daughters were in the room observing this phenomenon, mother and stepmom embracing.

Over two years have passed since that incident. In that time my youngest daughter and I completed a sprint-distance triathlon in memory of my dad near anniversary of his “Heaven Day.” It was quite an accomplishment for the two of us, even more so for her as she juggles her Juvenile Diabetes. Somewhere along the line I fell in love with the swimming and biking portions of the 3-tiered discipline. I did not fall in love with the run portion. In fact, I loathed it. I did it because I had to do it.                  

Earlier that year at one of my more memorable triathlons it was very hot. In the weeks leading up to the race I had tried to run the route. The first time I could not complete it because I had stomach problems. The next time a friend and I went back for a “do over” but it was awful. Leading up to race day I knew I would complete the course but I simply dreaded it. As it would turn out, I finished but managed to lose three toenails and was quite overheated. I hated every step of the run portion that day. Do you get the full picture?  I HATED RUNNING.

No sooner had I completed another shorter triathlon than a friend phoned me up. She was recently going through a divorce, would turn fifty the following year and had a goal to run her first marathon. She had joined this group of people, a seemingly makeshift band of runners who tongue-in-cheek called themselves the “Diablo Harriers.” She talked about how great they were with her (a beginner) and how even though she was slow, their patience encouragement and sense of humor kept her attending the early morning runs. She hated running too.

We were a perfect pair.

Soon I joined in on the fun, feeling it was the ideal time to work on my feared portion of the triathlons, running. And so I began to get up at 5:30am three times a week. Together my friend and I huffed and puffed our way through the assigned distances. We rekindled out friendship. We made new ones with this Diablo Harriers’ running group. Slowly, their enthusiasm spread and my friend and I completed a half-marathon with them, in costume no less. And don’t let the fact that the men wore dresses, fishnets and skirts with us fool you. They ran fast. They even placed and qualified for Boston.

Over time my friend and I have developed a love for running. I look at that statement with sheer baffled amusement. Over this half year I have experienced the “runner’s high” which must explain why I signed up for my first marathon in March. The term “March Madness” has taken on a whole new meaning.

While I have been building my strength and endurance, Lynn has undergone her own battle. She was recently diagnosed with invasive breast cancer. It has been a very trying and frustrating process to even learn what has been growing inside of her body. The diagnosis and treatment is the most painful and serious you can experience. She is not finished yet. She is healing, resting up and preparing for the combat ahead.

Her husband, my former husband, has lovingly and devotedly taken care of her throughout this process. He is soft and gentle and steadfast for her, in a way that is a living example for our three children. He is a teacher to them right now.

This last time my youngest was staying with me, she mentioned something Lynn had jokingly said, "Ha ha, maybe your mom should run a marathon for me." Immediately, I knew instinctively I would do it.

During one of the many clinics my racing club held, I heard several speakers tell us to practice what you do during the races. And what you do in the off-season will pay off later. And so I sit here today preparing to run my first marathon. This is at the same time my ex-husband’s wife approaches the difficult part of her fight. I can envision running and it getting difficult, as did my Olympic distant triathlons. At those points, I thought of my dad during his cancer treatments and his steadfast nature. It fueled me to the point of finishing the most difficult leg of the event. This time, I will think of Lynn. My children, our children, will be there to cheer for me. My running partner will be there, as I will be for her marathon a few weeks later. Other friends will be there too. And although I don’t imagine Lynn being able to come, she is welcome. She will be there with me, for all 26.2 miles of the journey.