My Guardian Angel
A Special Focus on Teacher Appreciation Day!
When I was ten years old, my father went to prison for ten months. I would likely not be disclosing this information, or telling this story this way, except that my father passed away in 2001, just a few months after 9/11, and my mother (at the time this was initially written) is living with my sister in a manic-depressive dementia-colored world in Florida. I don’t think she will learn that I have shared it, as my sister should be quick enough to shield her. My mother was always embarrassed about the circumstances of 1971, so while she likes the fact that I write and tell stories, she would prefer that she doesn’t hear this one.
Today is Teacher Appreciation Day, and the teacher who holds the first place in line for most appreciated by me is Sister Jean Maria Goretti. Sister Jean was a first year teacher who served at St. Mary’s (Delphi) for only two years before being reassigned to another parish. More than four decades later, I genuinely believe she was sent to Schwenksville for the express purpose of serving as my guardian angel. Lord knows I needed one at that point.
Barney, my dad, was mostly an absentee father who drank, gambled, and smoked too much. But when he was around, he also taught me about how to laugh, and have fun, and in fourth grade I felt his absence deep in my bones, each day beginning with the dull ache of sadness. Compounding this condition was the truth that I was a terrible student up to that point, and the ignominy of having a parent in jail, and adults chronically showering me and my eight brothers and sisters with pity, made school an often uncomfortable place, at least early in the year.
Then one day, Sister Jean stopped sending me out of the room for my disaffected, disruptive behavior. Instead, she sent me to the library — with a very specific purpose and charge. Frustrated with my poor performance and disengagement, Sister Jean walked me across the hall to the library. I was given a worksheet, a biography of the American Patriots storybook — this first one chronicled the life and times of Patrick Henry — and a demand that I present a speech and tri-fold poster for the class. I had three days.
Initially, I responded as I had in first and third grade, when my teacher was Sister Agnes St. Joseph, an imposing figure who scared the wits out of me, and whom I later nicknamed Atilla the Nun.
I cried.
Sister Jean was soft, and kind, and supportive. She was no coddler though. She told me to stop crying and to start reading, drawing, and preparing. I would present in three days, she told me, and if I didn’t have a presentation to fill the ten minute slot she was planning for, she intended to have me stand in front of the class for that expanse of time, even if I offered nothing but abject silence. I stopped crying, and I started reading.
I don’t remember the first presentation that I gave, though I do remember that Patrick Henry was the subject. Instead, I remember how it felt to perform for an audience. I was more afraid of ten minutes of silence than I was of ten minutes of talking. So I prepared to be silly, funny, or goofy, if necessary, to fill the time. Incredibly, my classmates, who generally paid no attention to me at all, laughed when I wanted them to. They also listened.
Sister Jean was supportive, but demanding. I had a special assignment for social studies. All of the students did at least one informative speech that year. I did at least ten. After I had exhausted the American Patriot series, which included Paul Revere, Nathan Hale, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and Ben Franklin, Sister Jean shifted my efforts to book reports. I focused on people like Vince Lombardi and John Wooden, but I also transitioned to fiction later on. With Sister Jean’s help, I discovered that I liked learning, that I really liked talking in front of groups, and that if I found a way to make people laugh, they would forget that they were supposed to be throwing either pity or shame my way.
To me as a scholar, and as a little boy, Sister Jean was no less than my personal guardian angel, an otherworldly force which sheltered me from the ridicule of peers, and which cultivated in me the earliest manifestation of confidence.
Eventually, I became a teacher, and I wanted to do for someone else what Sister Jean had done for me. After fourth grade, I competed for, but usually lost, the contest for highest grade point average. In my mind, through 23 years in the classroom, I was always looking for a chance to be a difference maker for at least one student. Though I never encountered a student who attributed to my efforts the type of reclamation that Sister Jean executed in my life, I did have some great moments where I could share vicariously in the success of my students. Strangely, even though I left the classroom nine years ago, I still occasionally stumble onto a former student who thanks me for my efforts. It feels great each time, even if it pales in comparison to the magnitude of Sister Jean’s influence on my development.
About eight years ago, provoked by an incidental exposure to the movie Pay It Forward, I decided to see if I could track down Sister Jean to thank her. It took three years, but eventually I left my email address with the convent to which Sister Jean was originally attached. They agreed to provide Sister Jean with contact information — she could get in touch if she pleased. Again, because she is my guardian angel, she sent me an email. I shared the basics of the story that you just read.
Sister Jean did not remember me.
Nevertheless, we communicated back and forth for about a week. She shared with me some of the highlights of a religious life of service here and abroad, the type of things that you would expect a nun to do if she were truly special. Sister Jean was then in her 70’s, and she had served as a High School principal, a relief services administrator in Africa, a political liaison with a nonprofit in DC, and a true missionary in Haiti. She thanked me for thanking her, and imparted a few bits of wisdom. One of those nuggets serves the purposes of this little essay well.
She called me one day, by surprise. We exchanged pleasantries and then Sister Jean told me she was sorry that she didn’t remember me, though she well-remembered the little parish in Schwenksville, as well as the weekend where parishioners donated time and materials to repair the roof of the school, around the time of Hurricane Agnes, shortly after the school year ended in 1972. She was glad that I had been inspired to teach, and that I felt that her caring and kindness had been the catalyst for a period of growth for me. She also told me not to feel slighted if she did not remember one of the 40 third and fourth graders whom she had taught in her first year.
She told me bluntly that she wished she could remember — for my sake — but that for her sake, that recollection was not so important. Especially in her first teaching assignment, she admitted that her focus was on learning the craft of teaching, and on nurturing the hearts and souls of her students. It was right, she said, that she didn’t remember one student, as her responsibility at the time was to all of them. Perhaps, she said, the veteran teacher can have the confidence and skill to focus on one without compromising the others, but in her first year, she yearned to know that she hadn’t let anyone down.
I reminded her that she was my guardian angel.
I heard her catch her breath a bit. “Yes,” she said, “you have no idea how important that is to know right now. I can’t thank you enough for getting in touch.” Sister Jean did not respond to the next email I sent. I’d like to think she is still doing and serving people as part of her mission, but I really don’t know.
I am reminded of a quote from the earliest days of my teaching career. Christa McAuliffe, the teacher who perished aboard The Challenger in 1986, said, “I touch the future. I teach.” And so do all of you who have heard the call and who have committed yourselves to the noble cause. Thanks. I hope you all have a chance to experience the sense of validation and warmth that comes from hearing a student thank you for your kindness and caring.
Enjoy your day.
