Tell me a story ...

THE LESSON 

Senior year, fall semester: Nick walked up the broad ramp that led to the second story of the main building. He found the room designated for the class—U.S. History—and took a desk in the middle of the room. The instructor would be Mr. Sauer and he had the reputation of being a tough taskmaster.

Earl entered the room and took the desk next to Nick. They’d had a few classes together and, though they weren’t close friends, they’d always gotten along well. They chatted casually as the room filled, waiting for the instructor to arrive.

The bell rang and Mr. Sauer made his entrance. Nick had seen him around campus, with his tweed jackets, his horned-rim glasses, and an expression on his face that suggested chronic indigestion. He dropped a stack of books on the desk and then took his stance behind the old wooden lectern. He proceeded to call roll, constructing a seating chart in the process. When he finished, he wrote rapidly for a minute, ripped a piece of paper from his pad, and then walked down the aisle to Earl’s desk.

“You are not in this class.” He dropped the folded piece of paper. “Take this note to your counselor and get reassigned.” He turned and walked away.

Nick was shocked. It seemed like Mr. Sauer was angry, as though Earl had done something to offend him.

Earl looked at Nick and grinned. “See ya around, Nick.” He picked up his books and headed for the door.

Nick looked around at his classmates. Earl’s departure left the class lily white; not a black face in the room.

Mr. Sauer began his opening lecture. We are going to study U.S. History, from the founding of the nation until the present. You will be issued a textbook. There will be supplemental texts. Do your reading. Come prepared. Participate in class. Turn in your work on time. From the expression on his face and the tone of his voice, Nick could tell that this was serious business.

“What form of government do we have in the United States?” Sauer launched into a classic Socratic discussion, using his seating chart to call out names and shine the spotlight in their eyes. He let the discussion roll on for a few minutes. “Okay. Good. What we have …,” he paused for effect and everyone got ready to make a note, “is a republic. Or a representative democracy, if you will. Let’s take that word ‘democracy.’ What does that mean?”

Again, he worked his way through the seating chart, letting students offer definitions. “Okay. Good. What democracy means to me is this…,” pencils poised again, “the recognition of the worth and dignity of every individual.”

It was an electric moment for Nick, one of those ideas that clicks in your brain. He wrote it down and he would remember it for the rest of his life. In Nick’s mind, every ideal that we believe and pursue in this country flows from that definition. Equal rights under the law. One man, one vote. Civil rights. Women’s rights. Freedom of speech. The right to assemble peacefully. The list goes on, but it all comes from that idea.

Earl went on to have a fine career as an educator, rising to be an administrator at the community college level. Nick never asked him why old man Sauer had summarily booted him out of the class. But he never forgot either one of them, or the lesson he learned that day about the worth and dignity of every individual.

_____

PEACE WITH HONOR

Martin sat in his wheelchair watching the images on the television screen: desperate men, women, and children scrambling up the staircase on the roof of the U.S. embassy in Saigon, attempting to board the helicopter, their last chance to escape. How many would make it? How many would be left behind, and what would happen to them? Martin wanted to scream, to throw something at the screen, but there was nothing within reach.

His physical therapist entered the room, come to take him for his daily regimen of learning to walk again. Allison was a fine professional: strong, knowledgeable, compassionate, dedicated. She looked at Martin’s face, then at the television screen. She found the remote and turned it off. It was quiet then, for a moment.

“Look, that’s not your concern. It’s over. It’s done. Listen to me—”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not your life anymore, Lieutenant. Are you listening?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s done with. Nothing more you can do. Okay?”

“Right.”

“You did your job. You did the best you could. True?

“Yeah.”

“Now your job is to get well. To get well and walk out of here. Got it?”

“Sure.”

She took control of his chair and wheeled him through the door and into the hall. “All right then. Let’s get this show on the road. Got a tough day’s work ahead.”

Martin didn’t answer. He knew she was right. This was his life now: to work, to learn, to get stronger every day, and as she said, to walk out of this damn VA hospital. Vietnam wasn’t his problem anymore. The dead and the wounded weren’t his problem either. How many dead? Was it fifty thousand? How many wounded? He couldn’t remember. This place was full of them, kids mostly. Some would recover, live fairly normal lives. Some would not. Some would swallow a gun, or shoot poison in their veins. Some would drink themselves to death. And for what? Don’t think about that. What was accomplished? Don’t even go there. Why were we there? Just forget about it. You went where they sent you and you did your job. Let it go. It’s not your life anymore, Martin. Now it’s done and it’s not part of you, not ever again.

None of it.

Not one friggin’ goddamn bit.

_____