Mr. M
In my teenage years I often dreaded school and it's long, tedious, repetitive hours. Each subject dragged on, and when I look at my youth I often am angered by the state of education. There usually wasn't a day where I was surprised by what a teacher would say, or rather moved by what a supposed teacher tried to impart. However, there was one teacher, Mr. M, who imparted to me a message I'm sure many students have forgotten, and I'm sure has now outlived him. He was a substitute teacher at my elementary school a few instances but he never really said or did anything memorable in the majority of times he came in.
However, one day he came into my math class when I was in 8th grade. Immediately I recognized him and was delighted. He often substituted and made the class become quiet, which I liked. He wasn't mean, although he was perceived as such. He only really wanted the students to do work, and since I hated school, doing work was a way to get to the end of class faster. This time was different, however. He entered the room to the sound of the chatterings of gossip and the usual middle school shenanigans. He waddled in his older age, his gait was slow and careful. In what would be a few steps to a younger person, he crept to the front of the class. The rowdy children kept on speaking, even after the bell had rang. I kept my eyes on him. He took in a hearty sigh and grabbed the chalk for the board.
He squeaked his name out in a quick movement, but I don't remember exactly what it was. It was a longer last name, so he told us to call him, "Mr. M." The class quieted after gazing upon the name. He stood and simply looked at us. Instinctively I knew he was going to impart something this day. He cleared his throat and the skin under his chin shook a bit. He was shorter in stature, and was of Vietnamese descent. He spoke after a minute of silence. "What would you guys like to know about me?" Questions flew in, asking of his age, his spouse, his children, his life, etc. He had no wife, nor any children; not even a pet to occupy his life. But in truth, he seemed to have made peace with that fact. After an observation, a peer to my right noticed a medal dangling from his shirt pocket. "Did you serve in a war?" Mr. M smiled slyly, for he had been waiting for someone to ask. "Yes, the Vietnam War." The class buzzed a bit, nearly feeling an awkwardness pervade them, considering we resided in the United States. "Were you born in America?" "No." "So you fought us?" He shuffled around. "I moved here before the war." "Ok, so did you fight for us?"
"Let's just say I'm glad you asked," he said in a low voice. "If we're on the subject, let's play a game." He cleared his throat yet again, and coughed a dry cough. After recomposing himself he said, "I'd like you all to guess how many people I killed in the war." The class somehow came to life as if it were a fun game to quantize the loss of life. "One!" Mr. M shook his head no. "Twenty!" Again his head shook. We collectively imagined higher, "One-hundred!" He shook his head. After a period of guessing he used the chalk in his hands and wrote a single "one," on the board. "One isn't that bad," a girl said. Mr. M shook his head again, "I didn't kill only one. Nor did I kill one-million, or fifty, or ten." "But you did kill?" Another one asked. All I can remember is staring, staring at the man as the class seemingly was missing the point. I'm not one of immense intelligence by any means, but it didn't take a genius to at the very least pay attention. Many of us scribbled in our notebooks, many ignored him, and many thought guessing kills was a glorious task. He wrote a "two," beside the "one," written previously. "Oh, so twelve," the same girl said.
He stood there yet again, "I did not kill twelve." Many of my peers scoffed as if Mr. M was crazy. He looked at my eyes which were now the only eyes paying any attention to him. We shared a look as if I knew and he knew his message wouldn't be lost. His throat cleared again, "I killed one too many."
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