Martinis, Michener, and the Kid Who Needed a Warning Label
In 1982, I found myself teaching 6th grade at Ben Milam Elementary in McAllen, Texas. That year, my class of 26 students was like a fruit basket assortment of talent (or lack thereof), behavioral issues, and off-the-chart pushy parents. It was also during this time that I was working on my master’s degree in counseling at the University of Texas – Pan Am evening program classes. I’ll admit, I was definitely the one in need of counseling.
One night, one of my professors, Dr. Nolan Forest, called me aside after class and asked if he could discuss something personal with me. I was a bit nervous. Was he not happy with my group counseling project plan? But he hesitated and then said, “My son, Mark, is a 6th-grade student at Barton Elementary. He’s had problems for years at the school and has developed a really bad reputation with his classmates, the teachers, the principal, and even the parent group. He hates going to school. I was wondering if there is any way you would consider us asking for a transfer to your classroom at Ben Milam?” I think the reaction on my face must have spoken volumes. He wanted to add another challenge to my daily dose of chaos? He said, “I don’t want to impose! Really, if it’s…” I cut him off, smiled, and said, “I’d love to have Mark join our learning community. Let’s make it happen.” (Inner voice – “Oh, crap! Now what have I done?”)
I didn’t normally drink on a school night, but I headed to the nearest watering hole and downed about four martinis. The bartender, who knew me as I was a weekend regular, got to hear way more than he’d ever wanted to hear about the struggles of a new teacher. I went home and created all kinds of abysmal pictures in my mind of Mark fitting into the mix. Somehow, I’d make it work. His dad was such an awesome person, and I knew he wouldn’t have asked me for help if he weren’t at his wit’s end.
One week later, Mark joined the class. Unfortunately, one kid knew him from the scouts and let out a big sigh when he walked into the room. Mark was short, chubby, and had fire engine red hair. I greeted him, introduced him to the students, and assigned a buddy to help him learn the routines, take a tour around the school, and maybe, just maybe, make a positive connection. The buddy I picked wasn’t exactly Mr. Popular himself, so I thought the two of them might be a match.
Mark did not disappoint. Within one week, he had alienated the whole group and had me ready to consider a career change. His dad told me in class that Mark loved his new school and couldn’t stop talking about what a great teacher I was compared to the ‘witch’ at his old school. I nodded and said that we were helping him transition to his new environment, and I was hopeful he would have a great rest of the school year. Yay, right!
Not long after, Mark was already on a mission to become the Most Annoying Neighbor of the Year, pestering the poor soul doomed to sit beside him. If there had been a trophy for “Creative Disruption,” Mark would have taken home the gold—possibly along with someone else’s lunch. I had moved his seat about six times and was just about out of options.
During recess, I talked to him about expectations, and he gave me his little passive-aggressive smile and said he understood. I then told him I was moving his desk next to mine. That was followed by a scowl on his face. I let him know that he had shown me that he wasn’t willing to cooperate and leave others alone, so he’d be separated and do his work next to me – although I was rarely at my desk, thank God!
I didn’t bother making an official announcement to the class about Mark’s latest upgrade to “Teacher’s Shadow.” Frankly, they caught on faster than a squirrel on roller skates—and looked just as relieved. Mark had been testing their patience to the breaking point, but his quick wit and Olympic-level sarcasm had actually won over a few fans. At this point, the students seemed to sense we were all part of an afterschool special titled “How Many Ways Can Mr. Rhoads Try to Reach Mark?” and, against all odds, they were rooting for us.
About a month later, just as I was considering adding “lion tamer” to my résumé, Andrew Z. waltzed in with news that could only be described as plot twist-worthy. His mom, the Executive Director of the McAllen Library System—a title so official I was half-expecting her to arrive with an entourage and a red carpet—apparently had a celebrity author itching to visit a classroom. I nodded, trying to look professional while suppressing flashbacks of chaos, and asked, “Who, exactly?” I was banking on someone like Judy Blume or the author of those “Choose Your Own Adventure” books. “James Michener,” Andrew replied, as if he’d just mentioned his Uncle Bob. I nearly fell off my chair. “THE James Michener? Hawaii, Centennial, Pulitzer-Prize-James Michener?” Andrew shrugged, confirming my excitement, “Yeah, he’s writing something about Texas.” At that moment, I decided this was the universe’s way of apologizing for Mark’s creative disruptions. Finally—something to impress at the next teacher happy hour!
Naturally, I called Andrew’s mom faster than you can say “Pulitzer Prize” to let her know our class was rolling out the red carpet for James Michener. Then I turned to my crew of sixth graders—who, predictably, met the name “James Michener” with the same enthusiasm they’d show for a pop quiz on a Monday morning. After a brief lesson in literary legends (and some wild guessing about whether Michener wrote comic books), we cobbled together some questions, determined not to embarrass ourselves completely. Mark, ever the ray of sunshine, loudly announced that this sounded like the perfect day to come down with a mysterious illness. Secretly, I hoped his symptoms would be contagious… at least for him.
The very next day, Andrew’s mom swept in with our literary VIP in tow. James Michener himself—yes, the Pulitzer-winning, novel-writing legend! He charmed the room instantly, spinning tales about his Texas research that made even the most restless sixth grader perk up. The students peppered him with questions about his writing process, his wildest discoveries about Texas, and—because sixth graders have no filter—whether he’d ever been married and/or divorced. Michener fielded it all like a pro. Forget “show and tell”—this was “show and be starstruck.”
At one point, Michener strolled over to Mark, who was firmly stationed beside my desk like a quirky little bookend. “Tell me, young man, how did you score the VIP seat up front?” he asked, raising an eyebrow in good-natured curiosity. My internal monologue was doing somersaults—what would Mark say this time? Without missing a beat, Mark flashed his trademark mischievous grin and replied, “Oh, I’m here because I’m the teacher’s absolute favorite. The rest are just jealous.” Instantly, the room exploded with laughter so loud you’d think someone had just announced a surprise pizza party.
And you know what? Mark never begged to be moved again. Day by day, he stepped into his quirks like a pair of well-worn sneakers, and the class began to rally around him—not despite his oddball charm, but because of it. Somewhere between sarcasm and sincerity, he found his niche, and the students discovered that sometimes the best friends come wrapped in the most unexpected packages. Looking back, I realize Mark wasn’t just my favorite; he was everyone’s favorite lesson in compassion, laughter, and the magic that happens when you let someone truly belong.
In the end, it was like Empathy on Ice. Mark taught us all that sometimes, the quirkiest characters can melt the coldest hearts. And in a classroom full of chaos, we found a little bit of magic.