Randee

In this the holiest week on the calendar for many faiths that believe in the resurrection, I thought of a friend who passed away this year. I knew the late Special Ed teacher extraordinaire Randee Gerson only through the West Ridge Elementary School, yet I considered her a good friend. That might seem ironic, considering we never did any of the traditional things that friends do. I never shared a meal or even a cup of coffee with Randee, never bought her a drink, never gave her a ride, never ran an errand, never did a favor for her. How I wish I could go back now and do all of those things for her. How I wish I could see her smiling face welcoming another day at school and inviting me to share in the excitement of education.

Randee did plenty for me, though. She trusted me with her students, and I took that responsibility very seriously. I was able to see firsthand the work (and the miraculous results) and the preparation that went into that work, and I was determined never to let her down for the faith she showed in me. Randee was an inspiration.

I came to West Ridge late in life as a substitute teacher (with no experience in the front of a classroom) after a 35-year career in journalism, and joked with Randee that as an editor I was not unfamiliar with childish behavior, incoherence, difficult personalities, and temper tantrums. What Randee was able to accomplish was no joke. She went about the task of teaching her students with grace, class, humor, infinite patience, and enthusiasm.

You could not help but be infected by her passion for the children. I often told her that I marveled at the cheerfulness of her students. That was no accident. Randee made school fun for them. Those were children with special needs who spent a large part of each day under Randee’s care, and it was one of her special gifts that she was able to reach out and connect with them and to make each day for them so positive.

Randee imposed structure for the students with an indispensable classroom routine that accounted for every minute of the school day. She had a large display—I called it the “Big Board”—in the front of the room with the daily schedules for the students. Looking at it, you could tell at a glance what subject was being taught in each period and when the students were to leave her class for basic skills or to rejoin their homerooms for library, music, art, world language, or gym. After the day's announcements and the pledge of allegiance, there was a brief morning meeting, which included the calendar and social conversations at a round table with the students about their lives.

I came to appreciate how beneficial that routine was to the children. It gave them a clear, stress-free outline for their day as well as encouragement and self-confidence for their efforts and the incentive to work hard and to try to do their best. Randee’s students, though, like students everywhere, knew all the tricks in the playbook on procrastination when it came to completing their assignments. When the morning meeting was over and it was time to start the lessons, I typically would sit one-on-one with one of the young boys while the teacher’s aides worked with the other children. I’d check the previous night’s homework (usually a worksheet for spelling and another for math) and then apply a sticker and/or a star from a scented marker. No one ever turned down a sticker, although there was the occasional internal debate about which sticker the student wanted and which “flavor” of marker he favored on that day. 

“Mr. K, can I get a drink?”
“You just got here.”
“I’m really thirsty.”
“Go ahead.” 
But as he made to leave the classroom and head for the hallway, I’d point to the fountain in the sink.
“That water’s no good,” he told me. (This was said by every student in every school about every classroom’s water.)
I relented.
Having apparently quenched his thirst in the hall, he returned.
“O.K.,” I said. “Let’s get started on our spelling.”
“And then we’re done?”
“No.”
“Why (said so plaintively)?”
“Because it’s only 8:50.”

After a page of work, he’d ask to use the bathroom (Randee set a limit of two morning bathroom breaks) and then take a circuitous route to the boys’ bathroom. I watched him from the classroom door as he walked down the hall. He’d turn around and wave to me.

Finally, back at his desk, he was almost ready for another worksheet. 
“Mr. K, can I get a tissue?”

Blessedly, the box of tissues was nearby.

“I’m ready now, Mr. K.”

“You have to wash your hands.”

So, he went to the sink in the rear of the classroom, where he washed and dried his hands. Rather than deposit the paper towel in the wastebasket, he’d back up and attempt to shoot the wadded-up ball into the basket. It flew a few inches and came up feet short. Retrieving the towel but not getting any closer to his target, he’d shoot again.

“Just dunk it in the garbage,” I finally told him.

To be clear, it was impossible to be mad at him because he never had a bad day and was never not cheerful or respectful. That was the atmosphere Randee created for her students. The other boy in the class, a year younger, was equally innocent and winning. When I would sit with him for his lessons, I’d model the worksheet, starting with my name at the top.

“Now, don’t write ‘Mr. K.’ on your paper. Write your own name.”

He’d smile slyly, waiting for me to notice that he had written “Mr. K” on his worksheet, and then erase it and write his own name. His routine then closely resembled his classmate’s.

Randee never failed to thank me for filling in for her weekly while she underwent chemotherapy or radiation treatments. Believe me, for as hard as I tried, I could only be a pale imitation of Randee. I always told her that her gratitude was misplaced, that it was like thanking me for liking ice cream or playing basketball. It was a privilege to stand in for her. James M. Barrie wrote, “Nothing is really work unless you would rather be doing something else.” I could not imagine Randee doing anything else. Such commitment! Such selfless dedication! Up until her last day in school she was ever solicitous of her three special students and of trying to ensure that their needs would be met during her absence.

At the funeral service for her there was a reference to Randee’s cooking. All I knew about that was that Randee, in the course of preparing her students in real life skills (which included lessons on healthy and balanced eating choices), frequently prepared food for the students in her classroom. One day it was pancakes; another time it was banana bread. Once, when I was subbing for another teacher, she asked me if I wanted a grilled cheese. “Sure,” I said. At lunch, she delivered the sandwich.

At the service there was also mention of Randee’s leadership. My family and I were the beneficiaries of that leadership. My daughter delivered twins on April 25. So excited was I that from the hospital that morning I sent text messages to four people: my three sisters--and Randee! She responded immediately with warm wishes, and followed up on April 29 with her own text, which typically revealed both her kindness and attention to detail. The text read as follows (with her emphases): “Quick question. If your daughter was having something made for her new little angels, would she write CHARLIE or CHARLES on the item and, of course, PAIGE?” 

What Randee did was to mobilize her closest friends at school and purchase very personalized gifts for my new grandchildren. Upon presenting the gifts, Randee told me, “A lot more people wanted to chip in, but I told them they needed to buy their own gift. What was I going to do…collect 10 cents from each one?”

Randee was the first person who read the book I wrote last year about my transition (and continuing education) from journalism to elementary school, and rendered a generous review. She told me that she used to read chapters in bed at night, occasionally giggling at passages. “What's so funny?” she said her husband, beside her, asked. “Never mind,” she told him. “You wouldn't understand. Go back to sleep.”

Randee understood what her students needed. She and I shared an affection for the predictable behavior of one of them, a charming and ever-ebullient fifth grader. Numerous times throughout the course of every day, he would interrupt his lessons and sing out, “Mrs. Gerson (or Mr. K), how are you?” If you did not respond promptly, he would repeat the question. I always responded, “I'm fine” or “I'm good.” That was immediately followed by his second question: “What about me?” I sent Randee a message in June when she was in Sloan to see how she was feeling. “What about you?” I asked. One of the very last messages I sent her was to say jokingly that I had the title of my autobiography: What About Me? Randee wrote back, “Haha love!!” 

I knew Randee’s condition was terminal, but I was hoping and believing that she would rally and that I would have a chance to buy her that cup of coffee, to do a favor, to tell her how much she meant, and to say goodbye. I’m so sorry I never got that chance.

There is less joy this school year for Randee’s colleagues and students. The educator Henry Adams wrote that a teacher affects eternity because you cannot measure how far her reach extends. I know that Randee’s influence will live on long in the many lives she touched. Rest in peace, Randee.