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 him 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 instructions in the "new math,"
he did not talk as much in ninth grade as he had in the 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 the assignment, and as the students left the room,
each one handed me the papers. Charlie smiled. Marked 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, the 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 light lull in the conversation. Mother
gave Dad a side-ways 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
grave side. 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 had 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
Chucks 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. It's in the
top drawer of my desk at home." Chuck's wife said, "Chuck asked
me to put this in our wedding album." "I have mine too,"
Marilyn said. "It's in my diary." Then Vicki, another classmate,
reached into her pocket-book, 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.