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 Mark 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 walked to my desk, opened my drawer and took out a roll of masking tape. Without saying a word, I went to Mark's desk, tore off two pieces and made a big X over his mouth.
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 returned 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 instruction in the “new math,” he did not talk as much in ninth grade as he had in 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 the 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 classmate and write it down. It took the rest of the class period. As the students left, each handed me the papers. Mark said, “Thank you for teaching me, Sister. Have a good weekend.”
That Saturday, I wrote each student's name on a separate sheet and listed what everyone else had said about that person. 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 whether 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.
Several years later, after I returned from vacation, my parents met me at the airport. As we drove home, my father quietly told me that Mark had been killed in Vietnam. The funeral was the next day, and Mark's parents wanted me to attend.
I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. Mark looked so handsome, so mature. All I could think was, “Mark, I would give all the masking tape in the world if only you would talk to me.”
After the funeral, Mark's mother and father showed me something found in his wallet: two worn pieces of notebook paper, taped, folded and refolded many times. I knew without looking that they were the pages on which I had written all the good things his classmates had said about him.
“Thank you so much for doing that,” Mark's mother said. “As you can see, Mark treasured it.” His former classmates gathered around. One still kept the list in a desk drawer. Another had placed it in a wedding album. Someone else carried hers in her wallet. They had all saved their 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.
The lasting lesson
Life will end one day, and we do not know when that day will be. Tell the people you love and care for that they are special and important—before it is too late.