By Coleen Armstrong

Jerry came back to visit, just as I’d always predicted he would. The previous June he’d shaken his head, insisting that once graduated, he’d never darken Hamilton High’s halls again. But here he was.
 
“I just thought I’d stop in and see how y’all were doin,” he grinned.
 
He tiptoed to a back-row seat and sat listening intently (far more so, I noted, than he’d ever done as a student) to my opening remarks. Once the class discussion was underway I caught his eye. His expression was a mixture of intrigue and bewilderment.
 
The topic was teenage responsibility. What did young people owe their parents, teachers, employers? “As little as possible,” several kids shrugged. “We didn’t ask to be here.”
 
I let them ramble for a minute; then, instead of breaking in, I asked Jerry what he thought. He hesitated.  “What I’ve learned about responsibility since graduation,” he said slowly, “would fill three books.”

I started to smile as Jerry continued, speaking directly to the class: “You guys sound just like me a year ago. You say you didn’t ask to be here. Well, you’re just using that as an excuse. The truth is, no one asks to be here. What matters is what you do with what you’ve got.”
 
I was impressed. Jerry had always been a nice kid, but no particular ball of fire. In just a few short months, though, he’d grown. Obviously something I’d said the previous year had touched him. Why else would he be quoting lines I’d spouted so many times?
 
Jerry went on to describe his job as a stock employee in a local department store. His boss could easily replace him, he said; the only things separating Jerry from countless others were his accuracy and his attention to detail.
 
“Responsibility is a funny thing,” he declared. “We spend all of our time in high school trying to avoid it...and then years afterward trying to earn it.”
 
Fireworks went off inside my head. Another amazing line from my amazing repertoire. What a fine person Jerry had turned out to be. What a fine job I’d done of educating him.
 
“But what really puzzles me…” he began.
 
Jerry paused, searching for words. I knew what he was about to say. Why didn’t kids reach those conclusions sooner? Why did parents and teachers have to talk themselves blue in the face before it finally sank in?
 
I thought of the hundreds of times I’d been asked by a panicked student, “Did I pass?” Felt infuriated at the relief and happiness on his face when I’d answered, “Yes, barely.” Never mind excellence. Never mind pushing limits. Did I pass? When I remarked that Ds were not acceptable in adult society, I was stared at as though I’d taken leave of my senses.
 
But now Jerry had returned as a man of experience, a man of the world. To reinforce me, let me know the lesson had taken. Maybe even to thank me. Tell me how much he appreciated all of my hard work.
 
I readied myself with a properly humble, yet gratified smile.
 
“What I really don’t understand,” Jerry said, as I held my breath, “is why teachers never tell us this stuff.” He turned to me. “Don’t you know how important this is? Why don’t you try teaching us something useful for a change?”

Coleen Armstrong’s distinguished teaching career includes several state and national recognition awards. She is the author of Please Don’t Call My Mother: How Schools and Parents can Work Together to Get Kids Back on Track and The Truth about Teaching: What I Wish the Veterans had Told Me.