by Brad Stocker, Ed.D.
I see from the TESOL Program Book that a colleague I haven’t seen for a long while has several presentations. I circle her name. I’ll be sure to see her in one of the sessions.
I run into Maureen at her poster session. I tell her that our old friend is here.
No she isn’t – I’m told.
“YES, she is, “ I insist. “Her name’s in the program!”
“No, she is in hospice care,” wrenches my heart.
I stop Cynthia passing through the lobby. A hug and a kiss later, we sit. Tell me what’s happening?
“Yes, it is true. Would you like to sign a card.”
The first words out of the pen, “I owe you…”
Imagine. Desperately seeking language, midst a language conference, in the loud lobby, people passing by unaware of the deep emotions twisting mind and heart, attempting to tell a dear colleague everything that has been carried inside for years, trying to compress it into a few concise words, onto a card and accurately convey feeling and meaning. The first words are: I owe you…
What do I owe? I owe a coffee, a dinner, a smile, a hug, a call, a card, an email, a thanks, a hello, a goodbye.
I owe a copy of my dissertation. I had intended to toss it into the suitcase. She had been on my doctoral committee and I never gave her the traditional bound copy. More importantly, she had supported using a qualitative design – against the tide of the other minds. She critiqued the first draft – the chairperson’s duty, not hers. Shared all her resources, held my hand, listened to my desperation, insisted I dry my tears, sit down, and write. She modeled help for an arduous task. I could pass it on to another. She has inspired me.
I owe her lines on my resume. She has allowed me to co-present, and has helped me prepare proposals and my own presentations. I have seen her face in my audience, smiling her support toward my podium. Even though there was nothing new for her in my words, she was there as a big sister would be. I have felt her familial care.
She has taught me about ESL praxis, research, and theory through conversations, in her papers, in her feedback and responses to my questions. I have been welcomed to her insights. I have never been rejected from the classroom that is her presence. I have been embraced.
She has shared. She has never been competitive with me. She has encouraged my professional growth. It is cliched yet true – she has practiced what she has preached. She has taught me through herself, being herself. She has given me her teacher’s love. I have it inside me.
I have owed her the thanks that a student always owes his teacher. I owe her the knowledge that she has contributed to my transformation as a human, that I carry her in my soul, in my mind, in my heart, and into my classrooms.
Here is the thanks I owe:
You have taught me, Cheryl.