A Life in the Day

By Doug Brown

"Did you see Mr. Brown yet?"

"No, is he really back to teach?"

"Him with a beard -- grey, no less!"

"I thought he had cancer, or was it open-heart surgery?"

"What? I thought he was dead months ago!"

"Good God! Who is this Mr. Brown, anyway?" shouted a student who had been at the school less than a year.

Ah, yes, such was life, before syringomyelia. By the way, that’s a disease. You can tell by the spelling! Enough said.

As you can see, my life was in teaching. Twenty-three years of it.

Imagine! Twenty-three years. I never could understand why teachers don’t automatically get the Order of Canada!

And what were my rewards? Let me tell you about the collection of wonderful gifts that were so eagerly sent from the homes of students all those years. One coffee mug for my birthday in June, the one all the pretty green holly and red berries on it. Mom sure got that cupboard cleaned out! One slightly dented trophy with the words "Best Teacher" printed on masking tape -- stuck just above the words "Bowling Champ 1961." And those apples, a bit brown, a little smelly, with just a hint of worm hole(s)! Just the way I like them.

Some damn 23 years, eh? Right? Right? Wrong.

For teaching, the real gifts, the ones that sustain me during these more difficult days -- well, they’re different.

The many "Good morning, Bobby" days when Bobby would enter the room and look up and a grin would begin to spread across his face. For we both knew that that was the only kind thing he had heard since leaving school yesterday.

The "Bobbys" gave me their warmth.

The day when Eleanor entered the classroom nervously and began with, "I think I might be an alcoholic, Mr. Brown." And we talked many times.

The "Eleanors" gave me their trust. And the many days when I would say, "Now this project is challenging and demanding, but we’ll work through it together. You’re ready for it. You can do it."

My students. They gave me their patience, understanding and faith. Oh, such faith!

Sometimes I wonder why I bothered preparing all those lesson plans anyway, for each day unfolded as they would have it do, not me. Funny. Sounds a bit like life, doesn’t it?

Wonder what I ever gave to them?

So, you see, that’s why, after being unable to continue my teaching career, I took well over a year to make my first visit back to my former school -- to my other life -- to them.

And what of my life -- after syringomyelia? Well, let me see. I can’t play the piano. On the other hand, I never knew how to play the piano before, either! I heard that one someplace. But I bet it still made you laugh. (Feels good, doesn’t it?)

I had to stop playing football as well. I always did have a fear that my five-foot, three-inch, 140-pound frame would do serious injury to another player as he hit the puck into the net, or did they call that thing a basket? I really, really miss my sports!

But the real "can’ts" in my life these days -- well sometimes, I think about them too much. Too, too much.

The day came for my first visit back to the school, as I knew it would, as I knew it must. A chapter was waiting to be closed.

My students. They gathered in the halls -- and we talked. About Shelly’s latest boyfriend. They gathered in the rooms -- and we laughed. About the time when I replied with "New York Yankees" to the question of who had won the hockey game the previous night -- as I always did, right on cue. Because they always laughed.

"We’re really glad you came to say good-bye," they said.

And there was a silence.

And I knew they understood.

Then came noon hour on that day back in time. I was making my way slowly through the elementary area of the school. Then I heard it.

"Mr. Brown. Mr. Brown."

I looked. Everywhere. Nobody.

"Mr. Brown. Hi there!"a voice breathlessly.

This time, he was there when I turned. Jimmy. All three feet of him! Grade One. Only person in the whole building shorter than me!

As if on a mission, he thrust a pen and paper towards me. "Could you please give me your autograph?!"
Where’s the Camcorder when you need it?

Attempting to regain my composure, I managed to stammer out, "Why, of course, I’d be very honoured." Another first in my life.

He examined the words "Mr. Brown" that I had scribbled. Politely, but with assurance, he said: "What is your real name?"

He had me there. I stood, puzzled, to say the least.

"You know, Mr. Brown, your first name."

"It’s Doug."

"That’s a really nice name."

For 23 years, I was Mr. Brown, teacher. Doug. Hmm. Different. Shorter -- like me. Doug.

Jimmy left. I also turned to leave. Within seconds, I heard little feet. Lots of them.

I turned and there they were. Eight sets of little feet. Grades Two and Three.

The "leader" drew near. She held out a very large purple, permanent marker and an even larger sheet of blank, white paper. "Could I have your autograph, too?" she asked.

And I did. "Doug."

And then the "Me toos" began. So, seven more times the word Doug appeared on all those ever-so-new, unspoiled sheets of paper. I couldn’t write any more than that because I just didn’t know what to say. Imagine. A teacher, lost for words.

They all left amid their usual chatter and bustle. I couldn’t pick out much, except for one little voice offering, somewhat impatiently, "I thought he was Mr. Brown...?"

Within but a brief few minutes, a rebirth. Mine. I entered the school that day as Mr. Brown. I knew him well.

I left the building that same day as Doug. Don’t really know him at all. Wonder if I’ll like him? Wonder if I have to get my birth certificate changed?

They gave me a "new" name that day. But, unlike newborns, I knew that it was up to me whether or not I would survive to grow up, strong and healthy, like them.

The chapter did indeed get closed that day. But not the book.

Closed any chapters lately?

(Doug Brown lives in Chipman, New Brunswick.)

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