Where are you, Mr Sommerfeld? My hunt for a lost high-school teacher
|
Version 0 of 1. “If you can’t offer it in Australia, where can I go to benefit from this treatment?” a patient recently asked about an innovative drug. I let my fingers do the talking. Within a short time, I had turned my computer screen towards her, showing her the location of two international cancer centres and the name of the oncologist who responded to my request for assistance. It helped that the patient was a native of that country and was planning to return. I watched her hapless expression change to one of wonder. “Look who you can track down these days!”, she marvelled. My heart involuntarily constricted at her words. I couldn’t bring myself to say that even in this day of ubiquitous media, my personal search had been fruitless for years. This festering regret had been freshly revived by the publication of my new book, as I realised that the person whom I most wanted to send a copy to was nowhere to be found. How could this be, I kept wondering, when we were talking about cosmopolitan America, not some remote country with barren communication? Nearly 25 years ago, I landed in America as an immigrant high-school student where my father worked as an academic. That year in Minneapolis was cold, uninspired and even hostile. My school was located in a wealthy suburb and I was the only Indian kid in a sea of white faces. I spoke with an accent. “Different” did not begin to do justice to the gulf between us. Without a common experience to bind us, many students and teachers took the uncomplicated path of ignoring me, unlike the chemistry teacher who never missed an opportunity to underline his disdain. After many strained encounters, he finally failed me for misspelling sulphur because, “This is America, here we spell sulphur with an f.” We were both relieved when I followed my father’s job out of town. In Pittsburgh I found friends, solace, and an exceptional teacher. Mr Sommerfeld was my senior year English teacher in the Pittsburgh Scholars’ Program. The program title sounded consequential but from the moment we entered his classroom, he left us in no doubt that scholars we were not. In place of soaring quotations from famous writers about literature, a single poster of a lone, hard-backed wooden chair stuck above the blackboard marked his classroom. It bemoaned: Alas, I could have been a better writer if the chairs in the library weren’t so hard. The statement, at once mocking and cynical, epitomized what Mr Sommerfeld regarded us wayward adolescents, more interested in sex than Shakespeare, more excited by the prom than Poe. Each day as the chatter died down, he would affix his glasses to his nose, pick up his stick, and march around the class as we worked. Banging the stick periodically on an empty desk, he would peremptorily holler, “Put me there”, meaning that he wanted to be transported to the scene. It became his catchcry and our nemesis. Judicious with words and miserly with emotions, it was wonderful to hear him relent on the odd occasion. “I know you had an egg for breakfast”, he would moan, his eyes peering at us. “But put me there! Describe the yolk. Was it an orb of orange or a yellow crumble? Did it flow like honey or spill like water? Did you lick your fingers clean or use your best silver?” Then, suddenly catching a laconic expression, he would continue without pause, “Ah, I forgot. The prom is this week. And you have other concerns on your mind. What to wear, whom to take, the length of the limo, the shape of your nails.” You didn’t know whether to laugh or wince, it was vintage Sommerfeld. But in the midst of his irony-laden tirades directed at our slovenly and unambitious writings, there were glimpses of an extraordinary teacher who always strived to deliver his students beyond mediocrity. That year, Mr Sommerfeld introduced us to Chaucer, Swift and Conrad. In between there were grammar and punctuation rules that went into the framework of good writing. He did it with finesse, knowledge and care. Soon, I found his interest in our learning affecting and his heed to my writing galvanizing. It prompted in me a pride and vigilance in my work. Instead of swatting at his “put me there” like an annoying fly, I made space for the concept in my mind. I didn’t appreciate it then but it was to be a transformative time in my future life as a writer. Mr Sommerfeld held on to high grades like they were his children. Unlike some teachers, he never ever relented with spontaneous gestures of magnanimity because he felt sorry for us. Our homework assignments, hand-written at the time, were returned with unvarnished comments in his trademark scrawl. “Really?” meant he didn’t believe a word of it. “I like this”, represented high praise, resulting in an exquisite sensation because you knew you had passed the test, just that once. Which is why when the time came and I failed him, I was shocked. The most significant assignment of that year was to write a 5,000 word-essay about an aspect of a famous literary work, with the central thesis pre-approved by Mr Sommerfeld. Week after week, we presented a gem of an idea, only to have it openly ridiculed if not summarily dismissed. The task caused chagrin and even resentment because Mr Sommerfeld made no pretence that this was an ambitious, college-level project. My valiant attempts to satisfy the requirement led me to settle on the depiction of women in the works of the Norwegian playwright Henrik Ibsen. This was a time before computers, when there was no delete button, just endless erasing and painstaking writing and rewriting. Sixteen years old at the time, I felt out of my depth analysing the intents and motivations of one of the world’s greatest dramatists but part of me felt invigorated by the challenge. As we hurtled towards the end of the year this assignment would be my way of making him proud. When the graded assignment was handed back in alphabetical order, he handed my work back to me in one fluid movement. “I’d like you to rewrite this”, he said in a quiet, restrained voice. I stood dumbly with my hands clutching the wad of well-thumbed stapled white sheets. I moved to speak when he bent his head ever so slightly and regarded me through the top of his glasses. In that horrible instant, I knew exactly why. Mortified and overcome by shame, I made my way back to my seat, feeling the look of the whole class bore into me. Controlling my tears and smuggling the sheets onto my lap, I found the courage to read them. The first several were very lightly marked, mostly with ticks of approval. One got the sense that he may even have liked what he read. Then, three quarters of the way through, the markings receded before screeching to a halt. The remaining pages were distinctly untouched. It was as if the reader had given up. My heart constricted with remorse as my eyes fell on the offending passage and I remembered the exact moment when, exasperated by my inability to encapsulate Nora’s personality in A Doll’s House, I had come upon just the lines to do the job. Instantly uplifted, I lost no time transporting the words from book to my page, satisfied that just five or six lines from a real author had given my work an authentic voice. These days, everyone knows about plagiarism. I recently heard my eight year old tell his younger sister that her show and tell draft constituted plagiarism. A modern teacher would warn students about the perils of unoriginal work and use software to weed out the copied bits, but all those years ago, neither plagiarism nor its tools of detection was common or necessary. I was a cheat ahead of my times. I was nauseated by my stupidity. No one else needed to be disappointed in me – my utter dejection made up for it. When I finally summoned the courage to rewrite the essay, I kept looking for even the faintest sign of how Mr Sommerfeld reacted when he came upon the offending lines. But there was nothing save the monumental silence of accusation. In that time, Mr Sommerfeld did not refer to me in class. While this was not unusual it felt awkward and sad. I realised that I had relinquished my A average and sufficiently compromised my results to enter medicine. I needed that A to make up for the lower grade in chemistry carried over from the previous year. But most importantly, I had let him down. I handed in a fully rewritten assignment with wretched remorse. He took it from me wordlessly and returned it thus. I locked myself in the bathroom before bearing to look at it. Hoping to secure a pass, my trembling hands froze at the very first comment in red ink, “Excellent work”, it said. “I enjoyed reading this.” Next to it was an A. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Where was the markdown for a rewrite? Where was the condemnation or warning that he would not countenance a cheat? No note for a parent either? He couldn’t possibly have graded the new work solely on its merit. But the grade stayed and we never ever discussed the matter. At the end of the year I graduated with an A, a mark that was instrumental in my admission to medical school. I was speechless at my undeserved redemption. In the following years, whenever I visited Pittsburgh, Mr Sommerfeld took me out to lunch. He loved listening to my stories of becoming a doctor. I also came to know a little about his fondness for the gym and his small family that did not include children. My last meeting with Mr Sommerfeld was over 10 years ago. I was a doctor by then, my life rich with human stories. I observed that suddenly “put me there” didn’t seem all that onerous. He laughed self-consciously, perhaps wondering whether he had really been such a dragon in the classroom. “Do you have an email?” I asked as we parted. “Maybe. Why?” he responded warily, retreating to his former self. I wish I had coaxed him to share his email. If only I had known at the time that I was on my way to becoming a writer and that I would use the voice that he had helped me find. I acknowledged him very gratefully in my first book and tried for a year to post him a copy. The lady who picked up his phone kept hanging up until I realised that she had no idea who he was. I called my old high school. The secretary was bemused that someone would expect the school to keep track of a long-retired teacher. She obviously had never heard of his legend. My friends remembered him but no one had been close to him. Mr Sommerfeld must be in his late 80s by now. I wonder if he is still alive and well. Did his cynicism wither with time? If we were to meet now, would I find an impassive retiree nursing a host of ailments or a still inquisitive teacher with intact faculty? In the course of patient care, doctors regularly seek closure too. Finding Mr Sommerfeld would be mine. As a mother, I have to stop myself from occasionally preaching to my young children about the virtues of ethical behaviour on the playground and in the classroom. I realise that telling doesn’t work nearly as well as modelling. At these times, I think wistfully of Mr Sommerfeld and how his silent lesson in integrity was a cardinal one that extended well beyond my life as an author. He could have showcased my mistake as an abject failure, even a moral weakness that portended worse misdeeds in later life. Other teachers did this while openly castigating truants. But Mr Sommerfeld, a man not given to overt generosity, responded with the most charitable interpretation of my failing. He chose to let me believe that I was better. Every so often the memory floods my mind. Then, I desperately want to find him, take him out to lunch at his favourite restaurant, and tell him in so many words how his silence changed my life. |