Again, I was a pleasure to spend a remarkable day with the outstanding faculty and staff at Maricopa CCD! Please let me know if I can help in the future.
Below is a story reflecting the message that I tried to share with the educators in Maricopa last week. Given your commitment to students, I'm sure you'll appreciate this message. Feel free to pass it on.
Whatever role you play in your college, it's a vitally important one contributing to the most important responsibility in the world - educating the next generation of human beings to thrive on planet earth. The potential impact that your interactions may have on students (or colleagues) should never be minimized. Equally, the long term personal effect should never be underestimated. The difficult treatment they sometimes receive drives away more of the nation's community college students than the difficult academic content. We are simultaneously the "Architects of the future and the stewards of the present."
As the new semester begins, hopefully, we'll all make a special effort to give every student the high quality treatment found in the short story below.
The Cab Ride
Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living.
When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single
light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers
would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, and then drive away.
But, I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as
their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I
always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my
assistance, I reasoned to myself.
So I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute", answered a
frail, elderly voice.
I could hear something being dragged across the floor.
After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80's stood
before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil
pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie.
By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no
one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.
There were no clocks on the walls, any knickknacks or utensils on the
counters.
In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.
"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase
to the cab, and then returned to assist the woman.
She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.
She kept thanking me for my kindness.
"It's nothing", I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way
I would want my mother treated".
"Oh, you're such a good boy", she said.
When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, and then asked, "Could
you drive through downtown?"
"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.
"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a
hospice".
I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening.
"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I
don't have very long."
I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you
like me to take?" I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the
building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove
through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were
newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had
once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.
Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or
corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said,
"I'm tired. Let's go now."
We drove in silence to the address she had given me.
It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway
that passed under a portico.
Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up.
They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her.
I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door.
The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.
"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.
"Nothing," I said.
"You have to make a living," she answered.
"There are other passengers," I responded.
Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.
"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said.
"Thank you."
I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light.
Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.
I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk.
What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift?
What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?
On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life.
We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.
But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what
others may consider a small one.
STUDENTS MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT 'YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID, BUT THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.
