This week I went back into my journals to revisit what I was writing in the 1970’s and it was a lot like looking at old photographs. The old photographs confirm time’s passage in a subtle but profound way, like weathered paint on the cellar door. The door could use a few strokes with sandpaper and a fresh coat of paint but it will get us by as is for another year. The old journal gave me a déjà vu, ‘Oh my!’ moment. That was certainly my writing but clearly from another time. Those stories spoke of a young family or other people’s children in my classroom. Both have moved on into middle age or even into retirement for the person who took my place in the classroom. I’ve been writing that long and here it is coming back around. My vocabulary, syntax and grammar have improved over time but the stories and the memories they stir, they breathe new life.
I remember in summer of 1967 our high school 10 year class reunion, somewhere, I don’t remember where. But we all dressed up, coat & tie, two forks and a separate plate for the salad. After dinner there was music; some people danced but most of us were busy renewing friendships. At age 28 those of us who were not already successful still had high hopes and the atmosphere was sweet. My wife and I were expecting (soon) the arrival of our firstborn and likewise I would soon begin my senior year at William Jewell College.
Several former teachers were there and I remember a receiving line where we filed by and greeted each other. Mabel Smith was in that line. When my turn came and I reached out to take her hand she took a long, hard look at me, taking my hand in both of hers. Before I could react she told me, “Frank Stevens, I want you to know that you are the last person I would have ever expected to be graduating from college.” I recognized the double edge on her comment. It was a compliment of course and then again it wasn’t. She was in fact sharing her long held lack of confidence in my academic potential. In her English classes my report cards read the same every year; 1st quarter failure, 2nd quarter failure, final exam a D- and D- for the semester. She passed me year after year because she couldn’t bring herself to have me repeat the class. Several clever comments came to mind but I simply smiled and thanked her sincerely for putting up with me.
For the next 37 years, in and out of classrooms, I would remember Mabel’s low opinion of me and her disbelief to the contrary. The revelation for me was: Never, ever give up on someone who falls short. People respond to others expectations, good or bad, they just do. As a well intended teacher or parent or even a convenient bystander, I don’t have to be on the same path as the person needing encouragement. It was about me, not them. You have to be real but keep encouraging and believing they have what it takes. You never know who is paying attention, who looks up to you. Fortunately, I had another teacher who kept telling me that I could be anything I wanted to be; just never give up. So here I am, the kid who failed every high school English class, still writing. I want it to flow with continuity and a sense of purpose, to say something that may have value decades later when someone lays eyes on it for the first time.
My 50 year-old journal gives me the same, déjà vu sensation as looking in the mirror and seeing a wrinkle free, full faced, 34 yr-old image looking back. It is the face my son traded grins with when we took the training wheels off his first bicycle. At present, my output lacks some of that energy and urgency but it benefits from experience that can only be acquired over time. I am pleased to share with any and all of you that I am well and grateful for this life and for all the falling down and getting up. If I’ve shared these ideas before then I must believe it myself; so be well, take care of yourselves and always wear the hat you want to be remembered by.
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