I was at my parents’ house one day looking at some old family photos and some memorabilia my father had from his childhood. He was born in 1917, so many of the family photos were from the years between World War I and World War II. Of course, I loved looking at those black and white pictures from my father’s youth, but I was especially fascinated when I ran across some of his elementary and junior high school report cards. I examined them avidly.
I read through his fifth-grade report card, then his sixth. The grades on these cards were mostly B’s and C’s, with a few checkmarks next to “inclined to mischief.” Then I hit his seventh-grade report card. His grades had jumped to mostly A’s and a few B’s, with not so much as a tiny dot next to “inclined to mischief.” It didn’t take long for me to grasp what had happened, and I naturally began to rant indignantly on my father’s behalf.
“See,” I cried. “This is so typical—it’s the perfect example of how a student can excel with one teacher and not others. Your fifth- and sixth-grade teachers,” I told my dad, “were probably biased or strict and not fair.” I was on a roll. “Dad, this is so telling. It is so ridiculous and it just shows how a student can be treated unfairly until he gets to the right teacher who doesn’t play favorites and doesn’t look for kiss-ups.” I couldn’t stop. I am pretty sure I went on for six or seven minutes about the injustice and how a student’s abilities could be overlooked until he hit the right grade or class and right teacher.
My father heard me out, as he always did. Then he looked at the report card, looked at me, and said, “That was the year Dad was head of the school board and the teacher lived at our house.”
Rant stopped.
My dad could have just let me go on believing the worst of his former teachers. But he didn’t. He could have let me believe that he had been treated unfairly until he got to a better teacher who gave finally gave him a fair shake for not sucking up or for marching to his own drum. But he didn’t.
Although his words deflated me a bit at first, after 30 seconds of reflection, I was in awe. Over 75 years had passed since the reports cards had been written, and no one was left alive to rat my dad out. But he took responsibility for the less-than-stellar yearly evaluations and didn’t even consider letting his teachers take the blame.
I read through his fifth-grade report card, then his sixth. The grades on these cards were mostly B’s and C’s, with a few checkmarks next to “inclined to mischief.” Then I hit his seventh-grade report card. His grades had jumped to mostly A’s and a few B’s, with not so much as a tiny dot next to “inclined to mischief.” It didn’t take long for me to grasp what had happened, and I naturally began to rant indignantly on my father’s behalf.
“See,” I cried. “This is so typical—it’s the perfect example of how a student can excel with one teacher and not others. Your fifth- and sixth-grade teachers,” I told my dad, “were probably biased or strict and not fair.” I was on a roll. “Dad, this is so telling. It is so ridiculous and it just shows how a student can be treated unfairly until he gets to the right teacher who doesn’t play favorites and doesn’t look for kiss-ups.” I couldn’t stop. I am pretty sure I went on for six or seven minutes about the injustice and how a student’s abilities could be overlooked until he hit the right grade or class and right teacher.
My father heard me out, as he always did. Then he looked at the report card, looked at me, and said, “That was the year Dad was head of the school board and the teacher lived at our house.”
Rant stopped.
My dad could have just let me go on believing the worst of his former teachers. But he didn’t. He could have let me believe that he had been treated unfairly until he got to a better teacher who gave finally gave him a fair shake for not sucking up or for marching to his own drum. But he didn’t.
Although his words deflated me a bit at first, after 30 seconds of reflection, I was in awe. Over 75 years had passed since the reports cards had been written, and no one was left alive to rat my dad out. But he took responsibility for the less-than-stellar yearly evaluations and didn’t even consider letting his teachers take the blame.
