A Belated Elementary School Lesson

The second grade teacher walked into our sixth grade classroom, interrupting our teacher's lesson by announcing, “Someone in here did something very special today, something very caring.”

This was unusual, I thought, as I looked around to see who it might be. When I turned back to the teacher, I was shocked to see she was pointing directly at me. It took a quarter of a century to understand she was pointing to the most oblivious, least-caring person in the room. 

Webster School was our public K-6 school in our blue-collar neighborhood of Syracuse. More than half of us were grandchildren of Italian immigrants, with factory-working fathers and stay-at-home mothers. All but a few were Catholic – let out of school early every Wednesday and bused to church for religion class. Sixth grade was our “senior year.” Our next stop was the big, bad, scary junior high school. We took advantage of our status by making sure the younger students knew who was boss, while at the same time being somewhat paternalistic toward the littlest kids.

Webster School (Syracuse, NY) Class of 1968 – a bunch of
“neighborhood  kids” with a lot of growing up ahead of us.

That particular day, while running an errand, the fire alarm rang. I was in the K-2 hall and my “Mr. Big Shot mode” kicked in. I headed toward the exit so I could hold the door open for the youngsters. They walked exactly as instructed – single file, out the door and down the steps to their assigned spot on the sidewalk. And then “Shelly” arrived in the doorway. 

I knew Shelly and I liked her. She was one of my sister’s second grade classmates, a shy, tiny little wisp of a thing with a coy smile she tried to keep hidden. Shelly appeared to be the type of child who would have preferred to go unnoticed. For her, however, that was made impossible by the heavy braces on her legs. 

Now, under pressure to move quickly, Shelly stood frozen in the doorway. The other children were backing up in the corridor, causing the fire drill to grind to a halt. Still, I saw it as nothing more than a problem that needed fixing. There was no one else around to fix it, so I picked Shelly up, carried her down the steps, and put her down by her classmates. No big deal. Problem solved. 

As an adult, solving problems became part of my identity. As a television news producer, I solved problems. And at home, like most spouses and parents, I spent a lot of time “fixing things.”

I have always believed God grants us insight and knowledge only when we are ready for it. I believe this is what happened some 30 years ago, the last time I stumbled upon that class picture. I recalled the fire drill then, too. But this time, my mind’s eye focused on Shelly's face. 

What I saw shook me deeply. I saw confusion and vulnerability. I saw helplessness and fear. I no longer saw a “problem.” Instead, I saw a human being. 

I saw those emotions on her face originally. They just never registered. Back then, Shelly was simply the cause of a problem, not a living, breathing, feeling human being. Not a sweet, frightened, helpless little girl.

I stared at the picture, transported to 1968, horrified and ashamed of my heartlessness. Sure, I could easily attribute it to the immaturity of an 11-year-old. But I knew better. I had not changed much in the intervening years. As a news producer, for example, I valued the staff for the quality of their work, not as individuals. I was saddened by the thought of how many people I dismissed as mere units of productivity, and how many of them I probably hurt.

So many years later, it can still be a challenge to look past categories of people to see individuals. I see full classrooms of students every day, yet I am still sometimes startled when one ends up breaking down in my office from a personal or family crisis.

And what about others whom I see, some only in news reports? Do I view the unemployed with scorn, or do I remember the feelings of shame and worthlessness when I was “between opportunities?” Do I see the same humanity in immigrants and refugees as I saw in my own immigrant grandparents when I was a child? Or are they just a mass group of people taxing our nation’s resources?

Shelly still lives in the Syracuse area. She married, works for a large grocery chain, is a devoted mother to a newlywed daughter and is a fan of the Syracuse Orange and Buffalo Bills. I also hope Shelly has a forgiving heart for a “Mr. Big Shot” who’s still trying to see people as individuals, not as problems.