Been off the grid for a while.  Maybe it’s a combination of the colder than normal winter blahs, lots of holiday travel,  futile struggling to rescue my freeze ravaged tropical koi garden, just not being in the mood, or whatever.  Anyway, no, this isn’t a porn piece.  It’s about a student I’ll call John whom I chanced to meet in mid-December and about whom my memory has  gotten jogged over and over the past couple of months.   The first nudge was reading about Pope Francis’ New Year Eve homily, a description of “artisans of the common good,” in a January David Brooks Oped piece.  What a beautiful phrase to describe people who openly express love, who are constantly making the moral decision to care, who are attentive and kind to others, who assist others on their way.   “Artisans of the common good.”  There’s a great description, I thought, that should sum up our mission as teachers.  And, I thought of John.  I got another memory jolt about John when I came across something that Martin Luther King had said.  To paraphrase him, we become those “artisans of the common good” by merging faith, hope, love, and authority; that the exercise of authority’s power is at its best when we engage in kindly and caring acts of faith, hope, and love.  Then, just before Superbowl Sunday, I read a statement by Jack Easterby, the New England Patriots, official character coach.  “I just think that love wins,” he said at a news conference. “Communication with others wins. Servanthood wins.”    And, there before my mind’s eye jumped my conversation with John.  And finally, I just read a statement by Parker Palmer.  No punishment anyone can lay on another, he wrote, could be greater than the punishment we lay on ourselves by conspiring in our own diminishment.  And, any time we refuse to so conspire, we take a step towards “the good, the true, the just, and the beautiful.”  And, John once again popped up before my eyes.

So, to John.  John was in class just before I retired at the end of 2012.  I hadn’t seen him in quite a while until one morning when I was on the last mile of my morning walk in mid December.  I went out later than usual for that morning walk, and it  had been harder than usual.  Concentrating  to put each leadened step ahead of the other, I nearly “walked down” a person who was coming at me.  At the last minute, I turned my shoulders so as not to hit him.  I passed him.  Then, I heard from behind a jolting yell from a familiar voice, “Dr Schmier.”  I stop, turned, and there he was, John, smiling.  It must have been two years since we had one of our regular talks over the deli counter of a local grocery store where he had worked to earn tuition.   Jolted out from my mobile doldrums, I rushed back.  Smiling,  we shook hands.  We hugged.  Then we talked.

“Haven’t seen you at the deli counter for a while.  I thought you had left Valdosta.”

“I quit that job and went into construction…I decided I wanted to be an engineer….I worked and went to school on and off….Even got internships in construction….”  Then,  he added with a smile,  “….and always thinking ‘naked.’”

I just stood there for moment. Stunned.  Paralyzed.  A broad understanding smile formed on my face.  “After all these years,” I thought.

“Yeah,” he smiled as if he could read my thoughts.  “All these years it’s gotten me over a bunch of down times.”

 “You know you cost me $125.”

“Yeah, but it was worth it, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.  It sure was.  Best money I ever spent.”

I have to back up.  How shall I describe John when I first met him?  As I greeted him at the door on the first day of class, I could see in his eyes that he was entering the classroom conspiring in the belief that he was one of those “awful.”   His body language spoke of low expectations.  From reading the answers to his biographical interview, I saw how he accepted that he was one of those “don’t belongs.”  His daily journal entries showed that he accepted that his past grades were accurate predictors of his future, that he was a tarnished  “they’re letting anyone in nowadays.”  He entered as a sullenly answered and accepting “I am” rather than a curiously questioning “Who can I become.”  He had accepted a degrading character assigned to him by others, especially by family and high school teachers.  He didn’t get to choose.  He was denigratingly objectified.  Unheard.  Unnoticed.  His high school grades were made into more an expression of his unworthiness of attention by others, more of who he was, rather than who he could become.  He had not been seen for who he truly was beneath his transcript and, much more importantly, appreciated for who he truly was.  And, that had made it easier for others to not invest themselves in him, not to champion him,  and to dismiss him as one of those who was “watering down education.”  Why not?  After all, he was not a visible A-lister.  He had not been among those high school graduates whose name was specifically in print among the honors and recognition recipients. He was relegated to the Z-list of those whose name you won’t read or remember.  That all made a meaningless make believe of the canned assertion, “I care about students.”  It all had taken aspiration out from his vocabulary.  Resignedly accepting, he was unmotivated.  He was disbelieving.  He didn’t see the “awe-full” in himself.  And, in his early daily  journal entries, I read that while he was accepting of his skin, he was not comfortable in it.  But, he didn’t know how to molt into a new skin.

Several off-the-cuff talks, didn’t seem to have any impact.  He was an unwilling participant in his classroom community.  In fact, others complained to me that he was a drag on them.  Then, a few weeks into the term it happened.

To give the students in all four classes an appreciation of their debt for the taken-for-granted life style they live, when we came to the history section on the “age of invention,” I came up with a “simple” assignment for them.  In the coming week, all anyone had to do was to live totally—totally—for three hours without any benefits of anything—anything—that was invented after 1860.  My incentive was that if just one person in a class  could do that, I would buy premium donuts for her or his class each day for an entire week.  That would have been four dozen donuts for five days costing a total of about $125.   Of course, I knew it was a safe bet.  After all, there was electricity, the synthetic fabrics of their clothing, plastics, cosmetics, cars, campus buses, phones, computers, flush toilets, elevators, air conditioning, television, radio, velcro, modern day medicines, and a host of things beyond the students’ imagination, even the lowly zipper.  The following Monday, I asked the first class if anyone had successful completed the assignment.  Every description a student came up with I respectfully rejected with an explained “nope.”  The word quickly got around.  In the second class:  not a hand went up.   Third class:  shaking heads.  Feeling confident that my wallet wouldn’t be emptied, I asked the students in the fourth class.  Initial silence.  Then, one raised hand—just one hand—slowly and hesitantly appeared.  It was John’s hand.  I looked at him, “And how did you do that?” I quietly asked, holding a waiting “nope” in my voice box.

“I went into a field and quietly sat there butt-naked for three hours doing absolutely nothing.”

I silently smiled, slightly nodded my head in approval.  A joyful chorus of “Donuts!!” arose in the class reminded me that $125 just flew out from my bank account.

Back to our meeting on the sidewalk.

“Do you remember what you said to me after that class?”

“Not exactly.  That was a long time ago.  I only remember telling you to ‘think “naked”’ whenever you come up against a wall.”

Well, John, told me that I had said that when he thought he couldn’t do something, if he ever felt a negative coming on to simply “think naked.”  “Those words would give me power over myself, a power soaked in faith, hope, and love; a power that striped anyone from having power over me.  And it worked.”   He reminded me that I said it could turn him into the ‘Big Good Wolf’ who could blow down his own confining house of cards and release him from the false and negative and loveless prison he had built for himself that was keeping him from who he wanted to become.  “You told me that I could change my story.  And every time I thought ’naked’ I would stop saying ‘I am’ and become a ‘I can be.’  You were right.  I owe you big time.  Thanks.  You constantly changed the direction of the path I was talking.”

After a few more minutes, we hugged and went our different ways.  I flew that last half mile, the lead in my feet having been transformed into the wings of Mercury.

Why do I tell this story?  Well, there are several reasons that I want to bullet point:

First, when I retired, mad as I was that I felt it was forced upon me, the centering mother of all questions, my starting point, in the spirit of Rumi, I asked myself was:  “Did you love well?  Did you look for and  find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against love?”  It’s the most profound question underlying all others, for it seeks answers on a human rather than an informational scale, planting seeds for new realities.   I’ve always said that I teach, that I live, guided by “three little big words”:  faith, love, and hope. For me faith stimulates, hope sustains, love sanctifies. I mean, how in the hell do you have faith, hope, and love without obligation, commitment, and dedication?  And, when those three little words are energized, you will plant even in the harshest of times.  You will touch lives and change paths.  Big miracles will occur.  John is one.   The question is also important because happiness and satisfaction and fulfillment rest, as Emily Smith says in her Power of Meaning, on meaning.  And, meaning is a composition of community, purpose, and transcendent service wrapped up a storytelling that is beyond merely a list of events or description of a singular instance.  Just as my story proved fungible, so is that of John’s and each of ours.  None are not fixed in stone.

Second,  “welcome” is, to paraphrase Parker Palmer, one of the best words we can say to a student. It is a display of what I have called “HI,” an Abrahamic “hospitality intelligence,” that meets powerful fear, disbelief, and self-deprivation with powerful love, a power that does not foster harmful distances and chasms.  I mean why should a student listen to someone whom deep down she or he feels doesn’t notice  her or him, or believes she or he shouldn’t be in that class.

Third, teaching involves a bunch of small almost unnoticed moral decisions.  It puts you in a position of asking a thousand often unspoken questions.  In each student, in each of us, personal issues and problems abound, and there is no sure fire way how best to navigate through the rocks of sensitive topics.  So, I see my role as a teacher beyond that of an information transmitter and skill developer.  I see myself as a servant to help each student, and myself, create a healthier self-viewpoint so that they each can become the kind of people each is capable of becoming.  If I succeed, they are more sustainable in just about everything they do and will do.

Fourth,  annoyance, frustrations, resignation are too often sneaky ways of becoming distanced, uncommitted, and lazy.  They face you into the shadows rather than toward the sunshine; they’re explanations for disinterest; they’re excuses for apathy and inaction; they’re rationales for disengagement.

And, finally, faith and hope and love are inside our consciousness; they’re not merely states of heart and mind; they’re not merely responses to circumstances.  They’re conditions of your spirit; they’re orientations of your life; they’re vital relationships; they’re energized actions of service that take us on roads outside and beyond ourselves.  I heard a rabbi once say that you don’t give something to those whom you love.  You love those to whom you give.  If you have given something to someone else, you’ve invested yourself in them.  True caring, he said, is a caring of giving.  There’s so much work for passionate and compassionate faith, hope, and love to do on our campuses.  Why?  Because all those supposed “don’t belongs” sure as hell do; because untold number of unpredictable and incalculable situations can often redeem lives; because the way we teach is a source of meaning to so many; because in the classroom we are witnesses to the human condition; because we can be better people in a better educational system that helps others to better themselves; because there’s an energizing cause and room for us teachers to intervene and assist; because we are one of the gifts of attentiveness, alertness, awareness, and serving otherness” that we all need; because to teach and learn well, we all need to teach and learn together; because sometimes you just have to fight like momma bears to help a student get through the cliche crap of stereotyping, generalizing, and labeling.

Oh, by the way, John graduated this past December as an “awe-full”  who is heading for engineering school as a vision of human dignity and respectability.  Who would have thought.  He didn’t when he arrived at VSU.  He didn’t when he entered my first year history classroom.   He does now because he always thinks “naked.”   And, so should each of us.