Tim Corfman

She shall remain anonymous. Her classroom was out of control. Had been for a while. The kids in her “at-risk” fourth-grade class were about as organized as a prison riot.  That’s what we call them in today’s world. “At-risk youth.” Once upon a time, in a less modern era, we might’ve called them “troubled youth.” But such words are unsavory in today’s modern and unbiased age.  Either way, the kids never listened. They did not pay attention. They seemed to always have their hands where little hands should not be. Their indoor voices were loud enough to change the migratory patterns of most varieties of waterfowl.  The endless behavioral issues were upsetting the young teacher’s life. She was trying so hard to reach them, but she left class each day feeling like a Stretch Armstrong doll on Christmas morning.  Then.  The teacher had this idea. The next morning, instead of their regular lesson plan, she paired the kids off. Everyone got a partner.  The kids were required to find a private spot in the room and talk to one another. Their assignment was to write biographies on their partners. They were to do research.  Most of the kids groaned and protested. But in the end, they did it. They all got together and started talking about their lives. Really talking. “It was the most engaged I’d ever seen them…”   Over the span of two days, kids were connecting with each other. They were empathizing. They were exercising compassion. There were no behavioral issues in class.  “You could see everyone’s moods shift,” she said. “It was incredible.”  This went on for a week. Until one morning, when the teacher was running late for class. There had been a wreck on the interstate, so a substitute watched over the classroom until the teacher arrived.  When the young teacher walked in, something was definitely off. The air was weird. The kids were at their desks solemnly.   The sub came to her quietly. “There has been an incident,” said the sub.   Uh-oh, the young teacher was thinking, almost certain the incident would involve severe misbehavior. Or worse. Someone’s lower gastrointestinal system.   “When I got here this morning,” explained the sub, “all the kids were praying with each other.”  “Praying?” said the teacher. The substitute teacher nodded ominously.  The sub said the kids were found paired off, praying for each other. Nobody instructed the children to do so. They just did it on their own. They were using the name “God” and everything.  There were overheard prayers for food security, prayers for parents to find employment, prayers for moms to quit using drugs, prayers for dads to quit being violent. Eyes closed. Heads bowed. Some were crying. Others embraced.  The young teacher was so touched she began to weep. To make a difference in a child’s life is a feeling like no other. But, because this is an incredibly modern and unbiased age we live in, the teacher was fired the following weekday.  Perhaps we’re too modern for our own good.

Birmingham. I met the old woman for coffee. She was small and slight, with a mane of white. She spoke with a thick Latin accent. “I have a story for you,” she said. I’m a sucker for a good story. She worked three or four jobs. Sometimes more. She cleaned hotel rooms. She worked as a seamstress. She worked on construction crews. She was a dishwasher at a little restaurant. She was a house painter. The worst job she ever had, however, was working with a plumber. She dug ditches. Literally. “I was not so very happy digging the ditches.” No kidding. Her lowest point came when her ‘83 Toyota gave out. It was the day of her son’s 12th birthday. She had been picking up extra gigs lately so she could afford a birthday present for her boy. This meant she was working more hours. Which meant she was never home for more than 10 minutes at a time. She got used to sleeping in her car. “It was no so much fun.” One day, the woman was on her way to a cleaning gig. Her car sputtered and stopped on the side of the highway. It was rush hour. And her car was deader than disco. She sat in her front seat crying. This was in an age before cell phones. The woman stepped out of her car and looked heavenward. “Don’t do this to me,” she said in Español, as cars whizzed past her by the dozen. If you’ve ever had an automotive crisis, you know how many highway vehicles pass you by. Hundreds. Thousands even. Motorists will lock eyes with you from behind windshields, smile curtly, then fly by at 75 mph without even glancing back. She was about to give up any prospect of help and start walking home when a truck pulled over. Enter the mysterious stranger. The driver was male. Bearded. Longish hair. Older. Salt-and-pepper hair. More salt than pepper. His truck rumbled like an earth mover. “I thought he was Norte Americano, but when he opened his mouth…” “¿Necesita que se lleve?” he said. His Spanish was flawless. And his voice was warm. Like her grandfather’s. She almost wept. “Yes, I need a ride! God bless you!” He loaded her cleaning equipment into his truck. He drove her across town to her home, and when he dropped her off, he helped her unload the equipment. She offered him something to eat for his trouble. He thanked her but declined. Then he said, “Tell your son I said ‘Happy birthday.’” “How did you know it was my son’s birthday?” But the man only winked at her in reply. She had to hitch a ride with a friend to her next cleaning gig. And as she was vacuuming that afternoon, she noticed that her vacuum was not functioning properly. Finally, she opened the vacuum compartment where the bag went. She found the source of the problem. The draw of the machine had been restricted by a roll of cash. Tens, twenties, and hundred-dollar bills. “There was a thousand dollars in my vacuum,” she said. “I just fell down and I start to cry.” But wait, it gets better. When she got home later that evening, she was shocked to find her Toyota sitting in her driveway. It was fixed. Nobody knew how the car had been towed home. Nobody in the neighborhood noticed when it got there. She had her brother-in-law check the car out. He said that, miraculously, there was nothing wrong with the car. Someone had fixed it. When she turned the ignition, the car ran perfectly. It was amazing, the woman says. “People just don’t do this for each other in this country.” “Wow,” I said at the end of our interview. “That’s a pretty good story. Who do you think that man was?” She just smiled. Then winked.