He was in the first third-grade class I taught at St. Mary’s School in ¬Morris, Minnesota. All 34 of my students were dear to me, but Mark Eklund was one in a million: very neat in appearance with a happy-to-be-alive attitude. He also talked incessantly.
I had to remind him repeatedly that talking without permission was not acceptable. What impressed me so much, though, was his sincere response every time I corrected 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, I made a novice teacher’s mistake. When Mark talked once too often, I told him, “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.” And since I had stated the punishment in front of the class, I had to act on it.
I remember the scene as if it occurred this morning. I walked to my desk, opened my drawer very deliberately, and took out a roll of masking tape. Without saying a word, I proceeded to Mark’s desk, tore off two pieces of tape, and made a big X over his mouth. I then returned to the front of the room. 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 walked back to Mark’s desk, removed the tape, and shrugged my shoulders. His first words were, “Thank you for correcting me, Sister.”
The years flew by, and before I knew it, Mark was in my classroom again, this time for junior high math. Since he had to listen carefully to my instructions, he did not talk as much in ninth grade as he had in the third.
One Friday, after working hard on a new concept all week, I sensed that the students were 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. That took up the remainder of the class. As the students left the room, each one handed me the papers. Mark said, “Thank you for teaching me, Sister. Have a good weekend.”
That Saturday, I wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper and listed what everyone else had said about that individual. On Monday, I gave each student his or her list. Before long, the entire class was smiling. “I never knew that I meant anything to anyone!” I heard whispered. “I didn’t know others liked 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 students were happy with themselves and one another again.
Several years later, after I had returned from a 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 a light lull in the conversation. Mother gave Dad a sideways glance and simply said, “Dad?”
My father cleared his throat as he usually did before saying something important. “The Eklunds called last night,” he began.
“Really?” I said. “I haven’t heard from them in years. I wonder how Mark is.”
Dad responded quietly, “Mark was killed in Vietnam. 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 I-494 where Dad told me about Mark.
I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. Mark looked so handsome, so mature. All I could think at that moment was, Mark, I would give all the masking tape in the world if only you would talk to me. The church was packed with his friends. The pastor said the usual prayers, and the bugler played taps. One by one, those who loved Mark took a last walk by the coffin and sprinkled it with holy water.
I was the last to bless the coffin. As I stood there, one of the soldiers who had acted as a pallbearer came up to me. “Were you Mark’s math teacher?” I nodded as I continued to stare at the coffin. “Mark talked about you a lot,” he said.
After the funeral, most of Mark’s former classmates headed to Chuck’s farmhouse for lunch. Mark’s mother and father were there, waiting for me. “We want to show you something,” his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. “They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might recognize it.” Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper that had been taped, folded, and refolded many times. I knew without looking that the papers were the ones on which I had listed all the good things each of Mark’s classmates had said about him.
“Thank you so much for doing that,” Mark’s mother said. “As you can see, Mark treasured it.”
Mark’s classmates started to gather around us. Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and said, “I still have my list. It’s in the top drawer of my desk at home.” Chuck’s wife said, “Chuck asked me to put his in our wedding album.”
“I have mine, too,” Marilyn said. “It’s in my diary.”
Vicki 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,” she said without batting an eyelash.
“I think we all saved our lists.”
That’s when I finally sat down and cried.
