He was in the first third grad class I taught at Saint Mary's School in Morris, Minn. All 34 of my students were dear to me, but Steven Skinner was one in a million. Very neat in appearance but had that happy-to-be-alive attitude that made even his occasional mischievousness delightful.
Steven 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 Steven talked once too often and then I made a novice teacher's mistake. I looked at Steven and said, "If you say one more word, I am going to tape your mouth shut." It wasn't ten seconds later when Trevor blurted out, "Steven is talking again." I hadn't asked any of the students to help me watch Steven, but since I had stated the punishment in front of the class, I had to act on it. I remembered the scene as if it had occurred this morning. I walked to my desk, very deliberately opened my drawer and took out a roll of masking tape. Without saying a word, I proceed to Steven's desk, tore off two pieces of tape and made a big X with them over his mouth. I then returned to the front of the room. As I glanced at Steven to see how he was doing, he winked at me. That did it! I started laughing. The class cheered as I walked back to Steven'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 Steven 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 this 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 of their classmates and write it down. It took the remainder of the class period to finish their assignment, and as the students left the room, each one handed me the papers. Trevor smiled. Steven said, "Thank you for teaching me, Sister. Have a good weekend." That Saturday, I wrote down each student on separate sheet of paper, and I listed what everyone else had said about that individual.
On Monday I gave each student his or her list. Before long, entire class was smiling. "Really?" I heard a whispered. "I never knew others like me so much." No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. I never knew if 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.
That group of students moved on. Several years later, after I returned from vacation, my parents met me at the airport. As we were driving home, Mother asked me the usual questions about the trip, the weather, my experiences in general. There was lull in the conversation. Mother gave Dad a sideways glance and simply says, "Dad?" My father cleared his throat as usually did before something important. "The Eklunds called last night," he began. "Really," I said. "I haven't heard from them in years. I wonder how Steven is." Dad responded quietly. "Steven was killed in Vietnam," he said. "The funeral is tomorrow, and his parents would like it if you could attend." To this day I can still point to the exact spot on 1--494 where Dad told me about Steven.
I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. Steven looked so handsome, so mature. All I could think at that moment was, "Steven, I would give all the masking tape in the world if only you would talk to me." The church was packed with Steven's friends Taylor's sister sang "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." Why did it have to rain on the day of the funeral? It was difficult enough at the graveside. The pastor said the usual prayers, and the bugler played taps. One by one those who loved Steven took a last walk by the coffin and sprinkled it with holy water. I was the last one to bless the coffin. As I stood there, one of the soldiers who acted as pallbearer came up to me. "Where you Steven's math teacher?" he asked. I nodded as I continued to stare at the coffin. "Steven talked about you a lot."
After the funeral, most of Steven's former classmates headed to Taylor's farmhouse for lunch. Steven's mother and father were there, obviously waiting for me. "We want to show you something," His father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. "They found this on Steven when he was killed. We thought you might recognized it." Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times. I knew without looking that papers were the ones on which I had listed all the good things each of Steven's classmates had said about him. "Thank you so much for doing that," Steven's mother said. "As you can see, Steven treasured it." Steven's classmates started to gather around us. Taylor smiled rather sheepishly and said, "I still have my list. I kept it in the top drawer of my desk." Charlie's wife said, "Charlie asked me to put in our wedding album." "I have mine too," Tracy said. "It's in my diary," Then Tracy, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. "I carry this with me at all times," Tracy said without batting an eyelash. "I think we all saved our list." That's when I finally sat down and cried. I cried for Steven and for all his friends who would never see him again.
The density of people society is so thick that we forget that life will end one day. And we don't know when that one day will be. So please, tell the people you love and care for, that they are special and important. Tell them, before it is too late.
