Marco: Postscript Number One

I wrote a story a few months ago about a student of mine. His fictitious name is Marco. In it, I share his story. I tell about his background regarding his family, his girlfriend and his goals. I tell people about his big giving heart.

I tell how Marco wanted to graduate from high school despite all of the obstacles he faced. His girlfriend had been raped. He had barely enough money to commute to school. His family wanted him to work and drop out. 

He wanted a diploma

He didn't get one.

He was so close. He had all of his schoolwork materials and I am sure they were completed, or close to completion.

My principal and I had met with him more than once to encourage him. I stacked all of his books in a pile and pointed out he was about four inches from graduating. 

He called two weeks before school was out and said he would have to miss his appointment. However, he assured me he had nearly everything done. 

The entire staff was pulling for him. This included our office manager and her assistant, our principal, other teachers and people in the community who had read about him. We had a cap and gown ready. We held off printing the graduation program, hoping he would come in at the last minute and we could keep his name on it.

He did not show up for his last appointment.

Marco had a full plate, to be sure. He had pressure to contribute financially to his mother's household. He had someone give him a job which was physically very demanding. It required heaving lifting and long hours. His employer was taking advantage of him, worse still, he was related to his stepfather. He also babysat and cared for his grandfather. He wanted to contribute to his family financially but was torn.

He was experiencing life's "school of hard knocks" but remained determined to graduate. Hewanted to graduate. He wanted to walk across the stage and prove something to his family members. To himself. He told me this with conviction and tears.

But he didn't show.

I left messages on Marco's cell phone, his home phone, his mom's cell phone, and his dad's work. 

I have a mixture of emotions. I am disappointed. I am sad. I am angry. I am hopeful. 

I hope he calls me up in the fall and brings in all of his completed work. I hope I can see him walk across the stage next June.

I hope that I can write "Marco: Postscript Number Two."

I want to pen the words, "He graduated!"

The thing is, even if I don't ever get to write those words, I long for Marco to know he is special. He has value and worth and that he really can do anything he is determined to do. He does not need a diploma or to walk across a stage to know it. He doesn't have to show it to his family, his teacher or his friends. 

If witnessing his character in extreme circumstances is an indicator, I know he will be successful, with or without graduating. I hope he knows that too.

The Gift of Time

My oldest daughter is * gulp * graduating from college today. I am sitting here trying to think of something wise and wonderful to say to her to mark this monumental passage of time. 

I can recall, as a toddler, Morgan’s insatiable curiosity. She invented the word, “Why?” I was determined to never grow weary of trying to answer, to the best of my ability, this question. She loved to explore, get dirty and “dig in.”

She would collect snails for her grandpa in his backyard, create glorious mud pies and sandcastles in ours, and would finger paint with widespread hands in full force, wherever she was allowed. She loved to play doctor and would look deep into any willing adult’s ear and inform them in a rather serious tone, “You gotta lotta wax in there.”

I hope that my dear Morgan never ever loses her sense of exploration and curiosity to learn about new things in life. Creating. Building. But most of all, reveling in the pure joy and satisfaction of a job well done.

In my mind’s eye, I remember anticipating the arrival of one of our carpool moms. She was picking Morgan up for the early morning kindergarten commute. We’d experienced our usual hubbub and all was ready, including the addition of her winter coat. It was an uncharacteristically chilly morning, at least by California standards.

The horn honked and Morgan ran out the door, as I stared out the glass windowpanes. She skipped down the walkway, book bag in hand. She headed in the direction of the car, stopped, and stooped down to touch the frosty grass.

She turned around and yelled, “Look, Jack Frost came last night!” With a grin spread across her flushed cheeks, she proceeded to turn in the car’s direction and continued on her now merry way.

I hope Miss Merry Sunshine never loses her sense of wonder. Whether it is musical notes heard, a book she’s just devoured, a handbag she just scored at Loehmann’s or most importantly, the beauty in nature that surrounds her. I hope she will stop to notice. Notice the majestic sunrises and sunsets, the cumulus cloud covering the sky as she (hopefully) lies back on the grass and soaks in the goodness that surrounds her.

Later, I marveled at the strength she displayed as a mere second grader. She had practiced a song for weeks and weeks to sing at her elementary school’s end of year talent show. It was a stretch for her but she was determined. In the end, the tape we had made for her to sing along with was seemingly lost and she would not be able to perform. When she happened to find it at the last minute, she ran to her teacher. The teacher informed Morgan it was too late. She would not allow her to sing. My “mommy heart” ached but she took the disappointment in stride and proceeded to enjoy the others’ performances.

That summer, her dad and I were driving home from a family outing and Morgan shared another incident involving that teacher. She was barely beginning to read and write. She had filled out a story plot plan as her homework one evening, and in her enthusiasm, continued to write her entire story. It was her first “real” one. It took a great deal of effort but Morgan was both proud and excited of her accomplishment.

The next morning she had it out on her table with her other completed homework, to be checked-in. When her teacher saw it, she ripped it up and threw it in the garbage because Morgan had not followed directions. I remember looking at her dad, as we exchanged a look of horror about what had transpired.

How could that teacher react so cruelly? She had followed the letter of her law but missed an amazing teachable moment. She was crushing a student’s love of a job well done.

Throughout the years I’ve seen Morgan receive other harsh judgments from those in authority. Whether it was for mistakes she’d made or lessons learned the “hard way,” she has amazed me with her strength to keep on, keeping on.  

She has determination and grit. I hope that with the passage of these lessons, she’s developed her own sense of compassion and empathy toward others who will also make mistakes one day.  In life, she can follow the letter of the law or the intent with which it was created. I hope she has learned to do the latter with firmness, yes, but a sense of fairness.

As a little girl she was kind, generous and very loving toward her baby sister and younger brother. When her tiny brother cried from an injury, she would sympathize, saying, “Poor Troy.”  

I have seen that same caring attitude displayed with children she babysits. Those characteristics seem to shine as she discusses holding newborns or the mommies who deliver them. Her chosen profession, that of a nurse, seems perfectly suited for her.  All that she has learned: wonderment, curiosity, strength, determination, grit, empathy and more, will make her an excellent nurse.

So to my Miss Merry Sunshine, Morgan, I offer sincere congratulations. And did I mention my “mommy heart” is oh so proud?  I love you.