Quality of Mercy
Apr. 24th, 2023 01:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947All you hypocrites and liars
In the temple seeking gain.
All you senators and lawyers
With your motives to explain.
All you victims and you heroes
Your petitions to complain.
All your murderers and martyrs
On the fields where you lay slain.
On the just and unjust
Alike it doth rain.
And the quality of mercy is not strained.
Oh, I’ve been three times a sinner.
And two times a saint.
And the quality of mercy is not strained.
Yes, for Love if it’s Love
Is changing but unchanged.
And the quality of mercy is not strained.
(Quality of Mercy: Michelle Schocked – 1995)
We spotted the lone young boy sitting on the curb in front of school as our car came to a stop at the corner of Vesper Avenue and Albers Street. Marty Crowe and I were driving back to Van Nuys Middle School after celebrating a staff TGIF (Thank God It’s Friday) gathering at a local pub. We wanted to toast a quiet and uneventful week at school, with no problems, conflicts, or controversies. And it was on our way back to school that we saw the boy from Marty’s supervision corner. This was the spot where Marty stood every day at the end of school. He was a counselor at Van Nuys Middle School (as well as a Blues musician, perennial MC at school assemblies, and lunchtime organizer of student handball tournaments), and at the end of every school day he would station himself at this corner to say goodbye, or to check up on students as they headed home. It was a high visibility station, and it gave departing students a chance to greet or confide with him after a day at school. Marty believed that he could measure the pulse of the school by the way students interacted with him, and the information they shared (or whispered to him) at the end of each day.
“That’s not one of our kids”, Marty said from the passenger side, as we slowly drove by the boy sitting on the curb.
“He’s probably a magnet student waiting for his school bus connection”, I said, parking my car in front of the Main Building near my office. “Our school is a transfer point for a lot of bussed students”, I added, “I see them all the time”.
“Awfully late for a bus pickup”, Marty muttered to himself as he closed the car door behind him. “I’m going to check on him and find out what’s going on”, he added as he left me and walked back toward the boy.
“Oh God,” I moaned to myself as I unlocked the front entrance door to the school. “What is he going to get us into now?”
I must confess that over time, and especially after many years as a middle school administrator and principal, I’ve come to believe that school problems and personnel troubles will always find me – so I really didn’t have to seek them out. I would ask myself, “Why go out of my way looking for problems?” Perhaps there was a time in my life when if I saw a stranger in a seeming predicament, I would talk to them and volunteer to help. But as I got older, and seemly wiser, I managed to squash that sentiment. However, Marty Crowe did not share this attitude of avoidance. He, along with the counseling and coordinating staff of Van Nuys Middle School, was always alert and ready to sniff out possible problems or find people who needed help – students, teachers, or staff. It was a compassionate compulsion that I found myself supporting and participating in as principal at this school, although sometimes reluctantly. As I entered my office, I could only hope that my initial assessment of the lone boy on the curb was right, and this was not a burgeoning problem on an early Friday evening, after a long week at school. About 10 minutes later, Marty guided the young boy into the office and said, “Tony, we have a problem.”
The young boy looked nervous and a little scared as he entered. As he sat in a chair facing me at my desk, Marty explained what he had learned. The boy’s name was Stephen. He was 11 years old and a magnet student from another middle school, who regularly caught his transfer school bus in front of our school. However, today, his parents had planned that his father would pick him up after work, so Stephen let the school bus go and waited alone. It was now over an hour past the time his father was supposed to pick him up. We assumed his father had forgotten. Now Stephen had no money, no phone, and no way home.
“Stephen”, I said after a long breath, trying to sound confident and reassuring. “Everything is fine now, and we’ll see about getting you home, so don’t worry”. I gave Marty a stiff smile and began questioning Stephen so we could figure a way of contacting a parent and getting him home.
I quickly learned that Stephen lived in a West Los Angeles neighborhood near the 405 and 10 Freeways, close to the route Marty took on his own way home.
“I can drive him to his house on my way home”, Marty volunteered, confidently, “it’s no trouble”.
“Okay”, I replied, “now we just need parental permission to transport him in a private vehicle”.
“Is there anyone home right now, Stephen?” I asked.
“I’m not sure”, he replied hesitantly. “I think my mom was going to meet us later”.
“Let’s try anyway,” I said confidently. I dialed the number he gave me and let the phone ring a long time before hanging up. “Looks like there is no one home”, I said, throwing a look of desperation at Marty. Neither of us wanted to consider the “correct” protocol for students when school personnel cannot contact parents to transport them by car. This would mean contacting the police and handing them the responsibility. The idea of a child sitting in a police station was not an option either of us wanted to consider.
“So, Stephen”, I asked hopefully. “Do you happen to know the phone number of any friends or neighbors who live near your home?”
This was my “Hail Mary pass”, my prayer that we could reach an adult neighbor, or parent of a friend, who could receive Stephen when Marty drove him home.
“Yes!” Stephen exclaimed, “I do”.
I held my breath as I dialed the number and prayed that an adult would answer. Luckily, there was – a Mr. Grant, the father of one of his friends who lived nearby. I identified myself as a school principal, gave a brief synopsis of our situation, and handed the phone to Stephen so he could also explain his dilemma.
“So, Mr. Grant”, I began, after Stephen returned the phone to me. “I just need your permission to transport Stephen to your address. I have a counselor here who lives nearby, and he can drive him to you.”
Instead of the quick consent I expected, there was a long pause on the phone, followed by a lot of hemming and hawing. “Well,” he said, I don’t know about that. I mean, I’m not really his parent. I don’t know if I have the authority to do that”.
That’s when I lost it. After suppressing my own reluctance about getting involved, and my shame at wanting to duck this problem, I proceeded to lecture Mr. Grant.
“Look sir”, I began. “Stephen may not be one of my Van Nuys students, but I feel the same responsibility to him. I am ready to direct my counselor to transport him, with or without your permission. I prefer that over dropping him off at a police station until his parents can pick him up there. If you won’t give me your permission, I’ll act on my own. I just need to know that there will be someone to receive him when he arrives.”
“Okay, okay”, he replied embarrassedly. “I want what’s best for Stephen too. Go ahead and drive him to us. I’ll be here to receive him, and he can stay with us until his parents arrive or we contact them.”
With an overwhelming sense of relief, I thanked him and told him that Marty would be there with Stephen in about 45 minutes. As Marty was escorting Stephen out of my office toward the school’s front door entrance, he whispered back at me: “Were you really going to transport without his permission?”
“Yeah”, I replied, nodding my head up and down, “I was.”
As I watched Marty and Stephen drive off in the dusk of that Friday evening, I felt a momentary flush of pride in what had been accomplished. Marty and I had helped a scared and seemingly abandoned child get home safely. It seemed quite a marvelous achievement. Yet that feeling quickly vanished when I recalled my initial reluctance to get involved. Had I been alone as I spotted the boy sitting at the curb, would I have simply ignored him and driven home? That question haunted me on my long drive home, until I parked the car. At that pivotal moment, between self-loathing and shame over my possible behavior, the realization hit me. But I had not been alone this evening. Marty was there with all his merciful compassion and concern – and his presence had prompted me to do the right thing. Marty could not have picked this boy off a curb and driven him home without risking serious professional consequences. I had done my part too. Marty’s compassion had identified the problem, and I had helped in its resolution. With that thought bringing me a measure of peace, I exited my car and walked to my front door.
The memory of this incident at Van Nuys Middle School has stayed with me over the years. It was a reminder of how lucky I was to work with so many individuals who were more caring and compassionate than me. Marty was only one of many individuals I can list over my 10-year sojourn at that extraordinary school. These were teachers, counselors, coordinators, and deans who did not simply point out problems to me that needed resolution – but they actively participated in the solution. I was just the figure head who supported their efforts.
On the Monday morning after the incident with Stephen, the Main Office secretaries received a huge bouquet of flowers, accompanied with a large basket of bakery goods and treats. These items came with a letter from Stephen’s parents, thanking me for having been so helpful in getting their son home safe and sound. I was touched by the letter, and amused by the gifts, but I asked my office manager to send them all to the counseling office. Marty was the hero of this story and deserved the rewards.
In the temple seeking gain.
All you senators and lawyers
With your motives to explain.
All you victims and you heroes
Your petitions to complain.
All your murderers and martyrs
On the fields where you lay slain.
On the just and unjust
Alike it doth rain.
And the quality of mercy is not strained.
Oh, I’ve been three times a sinner.
And two times a saint.
And the quality of mercy is not strained.
Yes, for Love if it’s Love
Is changing but unchanged.
And the quality of mercy is not strained.
(Quality of Mercy: Michelle Schocked – 1995)
We spotted the lone young boy sitting on the curb in front of school as our car came to a stop at the corner of Vesper Avenue and Albers Street. Marty Crowe and I were driving back to Van Nuys Middle School after celebrating a staff TGIF (Thank God It’s Friday) gathering at a local pub. We wanted to toast a quiet and uneventful week at school, with no problems, conflicts, or controversies. And it was on our way back to school that we saw the boy from Marty’s supervision corner. This was the spot where Marty stood every day at the end of school. He was a counselor at Van Nuys Middle School (as well as a Blues musician, perennial MC at school assemblies, and lunchtime organizer of student handball tournaments), and at the end of every school day he would station himself at this corner to say goodbye, or to check up on students as they headed home. It was a high visibility station, and it gave departing students a chance to greet or confide with him after a day at school. Marty believed that he could measure the pulse of the school by the way students interacted with him, and the information they shared (or whispered to him) at the end of each day.
“That’s not one of our kids”, Marty said from the passenger side, as we slowly drove by the boy sitting on the curb.
“He’s probably a magnet student waiting for his school bus connection”, I said, parking my car in front of the Main Building near my office. “Our school is a transfer point for a lot of bussed students”, I added, “I see them all the time”.
“Awfully late for a bus pickup”, Marty muttered to himself as he closed the car door behind him. “I’m going to check on him and find out what’s going on”, he added as he left me and walked back toward the boy.
“Oh God,” I moaned to myself as I unlocked the front entrance door to the school. “What is he going to get us into now?”
I must confess that over time, and especially after many years as a middle school administrator and principal, I’ve come to believe that school problems and personnel troubles will always find me – so I really didn’t have to seek them out. I would ask myself, “Why go out of my way looking for problems?” Perhaps there was a time in my life when if I saw a stranger in a seeming predicament, I would talk to them and volunteer to help. But as I got older, and seemly wiser, I managed to squash that sentiment. However, Marty Crowe did not share this attitude of avoidance. He, along with the counseling and coordinating staff of Van Nuys Middle School, was always alert and ready to sniff out possible problems or find people who needed help – students, teachers, or staff. It was a compassionate compulsion that I found myself supporting and participating in as principal at this school, although sometimes reluctantly. As I entered my office, I could only hope that my initial assessment of the lone boy on the curb was right, and this was not a burgeoning problem on an early Friday evening, after a long week at school. About 10 minutes later, Marty guided the young boy into the office and said, “Tony, we have a problem.”
The young boy looked nervous and a little scared as he entered. As he sat in a chair facing me at my desk, Marty explained what he had learned. The boy’s name was Stephen. He was 11 years old and a magnet student from another middle school, who regularly caught his transfer school bus in front of our school. However, today, his parents had planned that his father would pick him up after work, so Stephen let the school bus go and waited alone. It was now over an hour past the time his father was supposed to pick him up. We assumed his father had forgotten. Now Stephen had no money, no phone, and no way home.
“Stephen”, I said after a long breath, trying to sound confident and reassuring. “Everything is fine now, and we’ll see about getting you home, so don’t worry”. I gave Marty a stiff smile and began questioning Stephen so we could figure a way of contacting a parent and getting him home.
I quickly learned that Stephen lived in a West Los Angeles neighborhood near the 405 and 10 Freeways, close to the route Marty took on his own way home.
“I can drive him to his house on my way home”, Marty volunteered, confidently, “it’s no trouble”.
“Okay”, I replied, “now we just need parental permission to transport him in a private vehicle”.
“Is there anyone home right now, Stephen?” I asked.
“I’m not sure”, he replied hesitantly. “I think my mom was going to meet us later”.
“Let’s try anyway,” I said confidently. I dialed the number he gave me and let the phone ring a long time before hanging up. “Looks like there is no one home”, I said, throwing a look of desperation at Marty. Neither of us wanted to consider the “correct” protocol for students when school personnel cannot contact parents to transport them by car. This would mean contacting the police and handing them the responsibility. The idea of a child sitting in a police station was not an option either of us wanted to consider.
“So, Stephen”, I asked hopefully. “Do you happen to know the phone number of any friends or neighbors who live near your home?”
This was my “Hail Mary pass”, my prayer that we could reach an adult neighbor, or parent of a friend, who could receive Stephen when Marty drove him home.
“Yes!” Stephen exclaimed, “I do”.
I held my breath as I dialed the number and prayed that an adult would answer. Luckily, there was – a Mr. Grant, the father of one of his friends who lived nearby. I identified myself as a school principal, gave a brief synopsis of our situation, and handed the phone to Stephen so he could also explain his dilemma.
“So, Mr. Grant”, I began, after Stephen returned the phone to me. “I just need your permission to transport Stephen to your address. I have a counselor here who lives nearby, and he can drive him to you.”
Instead of the quick consent I expected, there was a long pause on the phone, followed by a lot of hemming and hawing. “Well,” he said, I don’t know about that. I mean, I’m not really his parent. I don’t know if I have the authority to do that”.
That’s when I lost it. After suppressing my own reluctance about getting involved, and my shame at wanting to duck this problem, I proceeded to lecture Mr. Grant.
“Look sir”, I began. “Stephen may not be one of my Van Nuys students, but I feel the same responsibility to him. I am ready to direct my counselor to transport him, with or without your permission. I prefer that over dropping him off at a police station until his parents can pick him up there. If you won’t give me your permission, I’ll act on my own. I just need to know that there will be someone to receive him when he arrives.”
“Okay, okay”, he replied embarrassedly. “I want what’s best for Stephen too. Go ahead and drive him to us. I’ll be here to receive him, and he can stay with us until his parents arrive or we contact them.”
With an overwhelming sense of relief, I thanked him and told him that Marty would be there with Stephen in about 45 minutes. As Marty was escorting Stephen out of my office toward the school’s front door entrance, he whispered back at me: “Were you really going to transport without his permission?”
“Yeah”, I replied, nodding my head up and down, “I was.”
As I watched Marty and Stephen drive off in the dusk of that Friday evening, I felt a momentary flush of pride in what had been accomplished. Marty and I had helped a scared and seemingly abandoned child get home safely. It seemed quite a marvelous achievement. Yet that feeling quickly vanished when I recalled my initial reluctance to get involved. Had I been alone as I spotted the boy sitting at the curb, would I have simply ignored him and driven home? That question haunted me on my long drive home, until I parked the car. At that pivotal moment, between self-loathing and shame over my possible behavior, the realization hit me. But I had not been alone this evening. Marty was there with all his merciful compassion and concern – and his presence had prompted me to do the right thing. Marty could not have picked this boy off a curb and driven him home without risking serious professional consequences. I had done my part too. Marty’s compassion had identified the problem, and I had helped in its resolution. With that thought bringing me a measure of peace, I exited my car and walked to my front door.
The memory of this incident at Van Nuys Middle School has stayed with me over the years. It was a reminder of how lucky I was to work with so many individuals who were more caring and compassionate than me. Marty was only one of many individuals I can list over my 10-year sojourn at that extraordinary school. These were teachers, counselors, coordinators, and deans who did not simply point out problems to me that needed resolution – but they actively participated in the solution. I was just the figure head who supported their efforts.
On the Monday morning after the incident with Stephen, the Main Office secretaries received a huge bouquet of flowers, accompanied with a large basket of bakery goods and treats. These items came with a letter from Stephen’s parents, thanking me for having been so helpful in getting their son home safe and sound. I was touched by the letter, and amused by the gifts, but I asked my office manager to send them all to the counseling office. Marty was the hero of this story and deserved the rewards.
