|
MEMORIES
OF AN OLD GYM
There was no one quite so gentle
or caring as Pete, but he died sixteen
years ago.
By JIM
STIEHL AND J. MIGUEL FERNANDEZ-BALBOA
 I'll
tell you what almost did me in. The
first thing was Pete, that Pete died.
And the second thing was the loneliness.
Sixteen years of increasing neglect.
Lost dreams. At first I mostly blamed
Pete for all that neglect. Then I blamed
it on the others who came after him.
They weren't like Pete. Not to me.
Pete and
I started off together. He was short
and sturdy. We had a special bond. From
the start I saw that he was one of those
rare fellows whose play and work become
indistinguishable. He had charisma and
he challenged children. They were always
learning, always inquiring about life
and about themselves. I became the arena
in which Pete delighted children with
his silly gestures and capturing stories.
Children, in turn, delighted him with
their persistent spirit of wonder. Those
children loved Pete, and Pete loved
them and always paid close attention
to their joys and triumphs as well as
their indifference, frustrations and
failures.
Those kids
showed up, exercised and learned because
they wanted to. Maybe that's what I
miss most about Pete. It was a sure
bet that his kids (he called them "amigos")
would become at least partially responsible
for their own learning. Sure they mastered
skills, but that wasn't enough for Pete.
"My amigos must grow in awareness
of themselves and their surroundings,"
he'd say. "These children must
develop the resources they'll need to
build a life that is truly worthwhile."
Pete always
wondered, and made children wonder.
He'd ask, "What if this?"
and "What if that?" He often
portrayed me as a Magic Kingdom. "Why
do you think they build gyms like this?"
he'd say. "So children will have
a place to contemplate, question, imagine,
dream and discover. This is a magical
place. Here, we are building the future."
I, in turn,
did my best to deserve Pete's flattery.
I would refract children's spirited
shadows and Pete's pantomime. I would
echo and amplify the unremitting mélange
of noises: the howls of young spirits
in joyful activity, the drumming of
small feet rushing higgledy-piggledy.
My favorite was to reverberate Pete's
frequent and distinctive laugh. I had
a lot of fun.
Pete was
nurturing and would always consider
the children's problems seriously. Take
Matt, for instance. Matt Clarel: tattered
sneakers, dirty hair, wrinkled T-shirt,
dusty knees. Remember him? There's usually
one like him in every school. Matt always
seemed absent-minded, as if his world
of youthful dreams had been crudely
shattered. "Problems at home,"
some teachers would say. "He's
a lost cause," others would add.
But not Pete. He had a special fondness
for Matt. Pete would wrap his muscular
yet tender arm around Matt's feeble
shoulders and talk to him after every
class.
"Amigo,"
he'd say, "once I met a tree. I
call it 'The Giving Tree.'" And
Pete would tell Matt a story. Matt would
remain oblivious, preoccupied, as if
he didn't care. Pete, however, never
gave up. He must have told the child
a hundred tales, and a hundred times
Matt mutely left right after.
I remember
the morning that I kept waiting for
Pete, but he never came in. It was not
until all the children and faculty gathered
for assembly that I realized that Pete
would never be back. Ms. Clemens, the
principal, told us about the accident.
I was astonished. I got cold. In all
those years, I never thought about Pete
not always being around. I didn't even
have the chance to say good-bye.
Today, the
first day of another year, a new teacher
has come in. The sixth new teacher since
Pete died so many years ago. He seems
different from the others, though. He's
tall and thin, and has an air of dignity.
He's almost classy. There's a sparkle
in his eyes. When he entered early this
morning, he stood at my north door and
let his eyes wander over me. I followed
his movements carefully. At first, he
worried me with those cables and wrenches
he was carrying. But rather than turn
my walls into rubble, he began to build
a tightrope for his after-school circus.
Then he adorned my walls with colorful
posters and - get this - he scattered
potato chip canisters all over my floor!
The first
class was about to begin. I could hear
the fourth graders talking in the hall.
Their classroom teacher, Ms. Harte,
was asking them to be quiet. In my south
corner, the new teacher faced the door
silently, peacefully, as if ritually
meditating. As soon as his students
crossed the threshold, he softly invited
them to gather around him and, with
a gentle gesture, asked them to sit
on the floor.
"My
name is Matt, Matt Clarel," he
said with a smile. "Once upon a
time, I met a tree. I call it 'The Giving
Tree' ..."
As he started
telling the story, and almost as a last
reminder of summer's end, a gentle gust
of warm air came in through the open
door. Like a premonition, I suddenly
realized that Pete has not departed.
His kind words, his tender mimicry,
his sweet smiles, his love for children,
and his passion for teaching have all
come back.
I must leave
you now for it's time to play. I will
echo these children's cheery voices,
and drum their little feet, and project
their animated shadows. I am alive.
Again.
Jim
Stiehl: Jim has more than 30 years'
experience working with underserved
kids and alternative programs for youth,
including outdoor and adventure settings.
During his professional career, Jim
has been a physical education and special
education teacher as well as an instructor
with the National Outdoor Leadership
School. His primary commitments include
forming community-university partnerships,
and developing physical activity climates
in which kids feel safe, genuinely successful,
connected to one another, and empowered
to make appropriate, healthful choices.
He enjoys backpacking and baseball with
his partner, Julie; reads more than
is good for his aging eyes; and, habitually
bakes and brews.
*
From Teaching K-8, April 1992, pp. 46-47.
Reprinted by permission of Highlights
for Children, Inc.
|
