This week, a teacher who worked at one of the schools where I used to sub died unexpectedly. Having subbed for him and having worked with him, it hit me pretty hard. I have a hard time understanding why people die young, but I have an even tougher time when it’s someone I genuinely liked.
Being a sub is a tough job. It honestly is. You’re put in an unfavorable situation with kids who have no real incentive to cooperate. Teachers have no obligation to help you. Some of them won’t, and that’s alright. That’s their prerogative. But some of them do, and those are the ones you never forget.
As a sub, I wasn’t very good at my good at my job the first year. I still wasn’t all that great at it in my second year. I turned the corner midway through that year and by the time I entered my third year, I finally had it figured out. I might not have turned the corner were it not for Tom Helmuth.
I was substituting in a gym class. As I said, being a sub is tough. Subbing in a gym class is ten times tougher. The lesson plans that day dictated that the kids play hockey. Two games were to go on at once. The boys were supposed to play on one end of the gym while the girls played at the other. One of the boys in that class was noted for his anger management issues, so I had him play goalie so he wouldn’t be chasing kids around with a stick. I didn’t account for the idea that he’d be an absolutely miserable goalie. After he gave up a goal, I quickly turned to check on the girls’ game (I was the only adult in the gym, after all). Right as I did that, he slashed a kid in the leg with his wooden goalie stick. Of course, the kid he slashed was not known for his toughness, so he collapsed to the ground in anguish and the nurse eventually had to come in with a wheelchair. Needless to say, the principal was not pleased with me.
I went back into the gym office feeling like a total moron. Tom Helmuth could have piled on if he wanted to. At the very least, he could have ignored me. He had no obligation to say anything to me. But that wasn’t the man he was. He talked to me and told me how that could have happened to anyone, how hockey is something that they should get out of the P.E. curriculum, and how having me supervise two games was setting me up to fail. He told me to not let it get me down because it wasn’t my fault. I never forgot that.
I never had a chance to thank Tom Helmuth for what he said that day and how much those words meant to me. He died before I could. I hate that. He deserved to hear about the difference he made. Matt Gavin deserved to hear about the difference he made when I was student teaching. Doug Huntley deserved to hear how important he was to me and my family. Katie Prosapio deserved to know how close of a friend she was to me and how much I cherished her friendship. I hate that I didn’t say anything while they were still around.
One of my goals this year was to be more thoughtful. That doesn’t mean to open the door for everyone I see (though I do that anyway). It also doesn’t mean that I become a shameless panderer. It does, however, mean that I make a concerted effort to let people know what they have meant to me in my life. Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed for you, and it’s not guaranteed for me.
As the bridge to my favorite song goes, “And for those who have stood by my side, you are the story I tell.” All of you are the stories I tell. You are the words and pages to my story. Over the course of the next year, I will be writing a series of open letters to a number of you to let you know what you have meant to me. Some will be more humorous in nature while others will hold a more serious tone. In general I will try to refrain from using last names to protect your privacy on the internet, but I will let you know that I have written to you. In a couple instance, I will be writing to multiple people in the same post. Your letter might be written to you and to someone you have never met. There’s a method to my madness. You’ll just have to read. I am very excited to get this going. You have no idea how much you mean to me.
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