True regret

Most successful adults can tell an inspiring tale about a strict, old-school teacher whose high standards and unbending adherence to the rules made a positive difference in his or her life.

I have a story, too, but mine is from the teacher’s point of view. I’m not old school, strict or unbending. At least not anymore. And in my story, I hope I made absolutely no difference in a kid’s life.

William “Marcus” Green sat in the far back corner of the first class I ever taught as a teacher. Last row, last seat in a class full of freshmen. When I made a seating chart that first week, he ended up in the same seat. And there he stayed all year, seldom talking, doing just enough work to slide by with D’s, and never causing a problem.

He was a pretty bright kid who could handle any of the work we did. That is, when he managed to stay awake. He knew how to play the game pretty well, as he had already had one year of high school under his belt. He had failed the previous year and was back for Round Two of ninth grade English.

The only problem I had with Marcus was that he couldn’t get to class on time. I cut him some slack early in the year, but the problem persisted, so I began to adhere to the county tardy policy. Kids got official written warnings at six and 12 tardies, and when they came to class late that 18th time, they failed the course for the year. As the year went on, Marcus’s tardies started to add up, and this fresh-faced first-year teacher marked every one of them and wrote up the proper warnings on the official county forms.

I didn’t enjoy doing this, but I didn’t question it either. I was new to the job and as scared as most of the kids, so I dutifully learned every item in my thick Teacher Handbook and tried to adhere to all the rules and regulations. I don’t recall if Marcus ever explained why he was so often late. I don’t recall if I ever asked him. Maybe he had to help a younger sibling off to school in the morning, or maybe he lived in a house where the electricity was cut off from time to time. Maybe he had a clan of drunk relatives carrying on until the wee hours every night. Or maybe he was just a slug who just couldn’t drag his ass out of bed in the morning. I don’t know. Because I didn’t ask. I was just marking T’s in the book and filling out the proper paperwork.

June arrived, and although I had started to lighten up a bit, I was still toeing the line pretty good. I was still a couple of years away from the beginnings of my iconoclastic ways, where I learned to decide which rules I’d follow and which I’d completely ignore.

Marcus got to his 17th tardy a few weeks before the end of the school year. I pulled him aside and told him that I would fail him if he was late one more time. I told him I had given him too many breaks all year, helping him with his grade and maybe letting some tardies go. He said he understood and assured me he’d be on time the rest of the year. He was exceedingly polite, as always. The kid was never once a jerk. And I never once asked him why he was late all the time.

On the last day of school, the very last student day, Marcus ambled in about three quarters of the way through class. Late again. Now, if this happened today I’d make the class laugh (along with Marcus, too) with some mildly sarcastic lines about him being late yet again, and there would be no consequences. I haven’t failed a kid on tardies or unexcused absences since about 1991.

But did I mention earlier that I was new and scared? My idea of strength was sticking to the rules and teaching kids hard lessons that would turn their lives around in the long run. (Yes, I really believed that back then. But I was young. And scared.) I learned in the ensuing years that real strength is something completely different.

I didn’t have any official tardy forms with me, and I didn’t say a word to Marcus as he took his seat in the back corner one final time.

Which brings us to “Awful Part of the Story, Part I.” I grabbed a form at lunch and filled it out, and then – and I feel real pain in my stomach as I type these words – I found out where he was during the last period of the day, found the room, knocked on the door and asked the teacher if I could speak to Marcus.

Marcus came out into the hall and saw the form in my hand. I’ll never – NEVER – forget his reaction. No anger, no hardcore “I don’t care smile,” no worry ... just a look of complete deflation. I saw him physically slump as he said, “Aw ... c’mon.” I told him I had warned him repeatedly and that I had to do it. He just took the form and signed it and went back into the room. He never got angry with me. He didn’t sneer. He didn’t even give me a look filled with hate. I guess he was used to getting hammered by people in authority. I turned in the form and bubbled in an “F” on his report card.

That was 19 years ago. I’ve never forgotten it, and I know it had a lot to do with shaping the lax, tolerant, understanding, always-ready-to-give-the-kid-the-benefit-of-the-doubt type of teacher I am. I burn with embarrassment and regret when I think of that moment, and I’d take it back in a second if I could. I have thought of it numerous times every school year since then, and I shudder inside every time. It is true regret.

I used to hold out hope of running into Marcus on the street or in a bar, and I’d think about how I’d apologize to him and try to explain that I was just a kid myself, and that I wasn’t being mean, and that I’d regretted it every day since, and that I hoped he didn’t remember it, but if he did, I hoped he’d understand that I was young and scared and now know it was indefensibly wrong. But I never saw him again.

But I heard about him just last month. This is “Awful Part of the Story, Part II.” Marcus was shot and killed in his driveway early one morning just a few miles from school. Busloads of kids rode by the body, which was covered by a police tarp as it lay on the driveway. The kids all seemed to get a kick out of it. The newspaper implied that his murder had something to do with drugs. His brother was later arrested for the murder.

I’m not going to wax all movie-of-the-week here and say how maybe things would have been different for Marcus had I not tracked him down to fail him that day. I don’t have that kind of ego, the kind that lets you think that every one of your teacher words or actions has a lifelong impact on a kid. Perhaps he was headed for an early, violent end from the start. Or maybe that’s just wishful, desperate thinking on my part. I’ll never know.

And now I’m left to wonder if he always remembered my act of petty spite, of utter smallness and saw it as just one more swat in a lifetime of hammer blows.

Ned Bitters teaches high school and dreams of one day seeing one of his former students on stage at a strip club. You can contact him at teacherslounge@hobotrashcan.com.