Survivors

Lise, officially the daughter of immigrants from the Congo, although I suspected that they originally came from Rwanda or Kenya, had attended school in town since the first grade.  She stood about five foot five, had large brown eyes and the expected curly black hair which she wore cut short.  She was large boned, but with a lean, muscular physique and this she used to her advantage in all sporting activities.  She was a quick learner, mastering basketball, football, floor hockey, soccer, track and field and swimming as well as or better that most boys.   She was highly competitive.  In fact, when students picked their own teams, she was always the first choice. 

She was not what you would call beautiful, but she did have a stunning smile set off by a gleaming set of white teeth.  I guess that cute would be a better description.  She had a soprano voice like none I had ever heard, capable of singing the highest notes, with ease and such beauty that it always gave me chills to hear her.  Her most prized possession however, was neither her looks, nor her musical ability, but her personality, or more precisely, her character.  If the saying were ever true about beauty being skin deep, it truly applied to Lise.  One’s truest beauty is not found in the smoothness of the skin, the shape of the nose or mouth, the stature, the color of the hair, or the bulge of one’s muscles.  On the contrary, true beauty is found on the inside, where it is often overlooked, especially by those who don’t take the time to look beyond the superficial.   Any imperfections in Lise’s appearance were soon overshadowed by her honesty, warmth, kindness, in short, her humanity.  She was all that a human being should have been.

She had for the most part been a model student.  My colleagues would attest to what I am saying for we had often spoken of her.  What was so great about her?  No, she didn’t earn straight A’s, but she was a worker, never satisfied until she had put the last touch to all her work.  She never turned in a test before the time was up, but would read and reread every question until she thoroughly understood.  Her writing assignments, though often riddled with grammatical errors, were remarkably creative and well thought out.  She was late for school twice in the eight years I knew her and she missed only five days in that time, due to illness.  I found her to be supportive of my expectations and one to speak out in my defense to other students.  There were times, though that she felt the need to speak to me privately, which I respected and appreciated.  We did not always see things through the same pair of glasses, but I could not fault her.   In short, I have to admit she became one of my favorites.  Yes, I know, teachers are not supposed to have favorites, but it is hard not to when you have someone in your classroom who wants nothing more than to learn.  I was so proud of her at her eighth grade graduation.   So were her parents.  They took many pictures that day; some were of Lise and me with our arms around one another. 

Near the end of the next school year, in late spring, I received a call to move to the nearby high school where I was to take on the position of vice principal and work with an old high school and college buddy, Mark Meloche.  It was difficult deciding to leave the school where my wife and I had worked together for so long, but knowing Mark as I did, I had to be part of his team.  Besides, I had always wanted to work with older kids, particularly the nines and tens.  I had always thought of them as a little crazy, but a good crazy.  They made me laugh and I liked it.  Due to cutbacks, I was also to teach two math classes, fortunately, my favourite subject.  The following September while standing outside my classroom visiting with a colleague, I took note of three young ladies jabbering away excitedly, before entering my room.  One of them turned around and gave me a big smile.  It was Lise.  I couldn’t help but return her smile.  So, she was going to be my student again.

***

Tammy, Tamara on her birth certificate, was a caring type, the kind you would love to have as a neighbor, but seemingly short on certain mental resources.  Always ready with an answer, but often for a topic from another era.  The politically incorrect term to describe her might have been “air head.”  With hard work and lots of practice, she was able to get by.  And fortunately, she had parents who understood her academic shortcomings and encouraged and worked with her at home.  Although short on academics, what she did know were the ways of the world.  She was smart with money, with clothes and was hard to fool.  If there had been an IQ test for street smarts, I’m sure she would have scored well above the average.  Among her skills, she was an accomplished seamstress, something she learned, not at school, but from her equally talented mother.

Tammy was a pretty girl, too.  Her parents kept her dressed in smart looking clothes, up-to-date with the fashion of the day, some actually created by her mom.  But she was not one to stick up her nose at anyone, and was quite willingly friends with all.  My only worry with Tammy was that some idiot fellow would talk her into a date that ended with her plumping up over a nine month period.  I figured that for some girls, beauty was a curse, the honey that drew flies.  Having said this, if I’ve learned anything in life, it’s that it isn’t safe to make assumptions about people, especially in unknown circumstances.

***

Snap!  My mouth hung open, breath suspended, as I strained to listen.  My heart beat so hard I could feel the pounding at the back of my throat.  Snap!  Whatever, whoever it was, was nearly upon me.  I pressed my back hard against the tree, slipped the safety off the shotgun and forced myself to a standing position, ready to turn and fire, if necessary.  My reverie was over.

“Warren?”  At the mention of my name I began to relax, cool, refreshing oxygen again reaching my interior, while my heart rate returned to normal.  Only the doctor would call me by my first name.

"Yes, my friend, I’m here," I said, as I revealed myself from behind the tree.  “It’s a cool night,” I said.  Of course it was a cool night, it was late in September.  Why must I always say the obvious to the doctor?