This is not a "Dear, John..." letter. It is a note, a memorandum, a memoria libris, to him, to my friend, John. We used to talk to each other, John and I, before he went away. Or was it me that went away. We will have to talk about that someday, too. John was a person that I could always talk with, right from the very start of our friendship. What to say came naturally, spontaneously to me when I was around him. Sometimes we would have long talks, sometimes short ones, usually depending on the environment and the time available. Some of these conversations I remember well enough to reproduce. Of others I carry an impression, a collection of feelings.

I was not the first to meet him, Sandra was. She did a really good job of not prejudicing me about what I would encounter, when I did see him at first. I was not prepared, in the expectation sense, for the John I finally did meet at one of the annual "Teacher's Gatherings". I think it was at a Christmas party at Eleanor's condo. It must have been sometime around the second or third year that Sandra was teaching at Washington. Make that about 15 years ago.

All I knew was that John was going to be in a wheelchair. Eleanor prepared me, by asking if I would help him get his chair inside, and would I also help her husband, also named John, support him up the steps and into their living room. When John arrived with his sister, Kathryn, I hopped to my assignment. I went out to the car, extracted the fold-up wheelchair, and quickly ran it indoors. I came back and helped husband John, mostly by watching, walk John inside and into the security of his chair.

Our conversations were always direct and never very shallow for long. I asked, "How long have you had to use the chair?"

He replied, "For several years now. I'm getting progressively weaker and need more and more support."

"Doesn't the damn thing get in your way?"

He laughed. "All the time."

I took that as mild non-preemptive challenge. "What would make it more comfortable?" I could see that he had modified the arm rests and was using his lap as a place to store things.

"I'd have to give up some mobility, to add the desk top", he replied with a wry grin.

"What about a battery powered runabout, then?" I asked.

"Can't afford that." He said, matter of factly. (I remember discussing this with John. He too, was blessed with the "Carson Common Sense." Battery powered wheelchairs were more of a problem than just money. Buying the van to haul the chair around in was another expense. Also, since John couldn't drive, whoever gave John a ride anywhere would also have to have a van.)

I understood, "Right, you're a teaching aide? Aren't you also called slaves?"

John admitted that he was a volunteer school worker. I said, "Isn't that some form of advanced slavery?"

John and I talked that evening away. If there was anyone else there, that evening, I don't remember them. I learned that he was a Sc-Fi buff. That he loved the Star Trek TV series, as I did, and that we shared the view that the future could (and should) be about exploring the limits of space and the human soul. We hit on many more mutually intriguing topics before the evening was over. When he and Kathryn left, early by my standards, I remember feeling a little disconnected. What'll I do for the rest of the evening?

I went home that evening glad that I had attended the party and feeling good about myself and the people Sandra worked with. Sandra reported a confirming sense of enjoyment and pleasure on John's part later that week, when John thanked her for bringing me to the party. That made me feel even better! I took that opportunity to tell Sandra to thank him for me. A lot of communication between us happened through one or two others. I was kept up on the "stuff" of teaching and teachers lives, through Sandra, and periodic updates on John as well. We saw no need to keep in personal contact, perhaps because of this informal link. The times that we did get to be together were fun and engrossing. John was into the microcomputers of his time, little 64K Atari machines, which were good for games and not much else. He presses his to the limit, though, learning to program it to work for him and the school. Sandra would bring home reports of what John had done with his Atari to help the teachers organize their classes, their Special Ed functions and record keeping.

The next time I saw John was in school. I had come by Washington Elementary to pick Sandra up for something or other. John, Sandra, Eleanor and another aide were all at desks, in their after-school mode chatting, marking, sorting and generally shuffling paper. Because Sandra hadn't finished whatever it was she was doing, I stopped by John's chair and looked over his shoulder at the little monitor he was reading. Looking at him, I could see that he was really consumed by what he was doing. He was plugged into his task, maybe the computer too, in a figurative sense, and totally absorbed. I said to him from behind, "Do you bring your own system to school?"

"Sometimes." He said, "It's easier to input some of the data here, than to take the paper home and enter it." He paused, "But I have talked them into getting a machine of their own."

"Great! I said, "When?"

"You'll have to check with Eleanor and Sandra about that."

"OK, I will. You have done a good job, just getting them to see the used for this equipment. What kind will it be?"

"The same as mine, so it'll be compatible with home, and I can build programs and enter data in both places."

I patted him on the shoulder. "You my friend, are building job security."

The time between these one-to-one conversations was months and maybe even seasons. We always communicated like this, picking up where we left off last time. Like we had been playing with each other yesterday, as kids might play when they are neighbors, as though no time had elapsed between conversation. I want to tell you John, we think a lot alike.

The next time I saw John, was at another Christmas party, a year later, or two? I was impressed, I remember, by how enthusiastic Sandra and Eleanor were about the progress John was making with the record-keeping for their Special Ed program. They were full of the latest set of parental consent requirements, acknowledgements and permission forms that the school district was loading onto their backs. John was making a difference for them, by vastly improving their organization of the paperwork and tracking all of the forms and requests for signatures they had issued. The season was cold. The party jovial, full of insider school-teacher jokes and knowing glances. John was already there when I arrive, ensconced in the security of his chair. He looked a little thinner than I remembered, maybe paler too. But his eyes brightened when he spotted me looking at him. By eye contact alone, we agreed to meet in an out-of-the-way corner of the room. He rolled over to the spot that had a chair for me to sit down in too.

"You are making a real contribution, John. Sandra has been talking non-stop about all the help you are bringing to their class."

"I know, I enjoy it too." His eyes were sparkling. He had a big grin. "I really am having a lot of fun."

"What a concept," I said. "Imagine being valued by the people you work with, for the work you do!" I thought a moment, "In a way though, you've cheated. You have picked two of the best people, the most skilled at supportive nurturing, in the known universe to work with."

"That's true." His voice was soft as he said. "So I'll have to take credit for that too."

I laughed and tears came to my eyes. "You are absolutely right, you do have to take credit for them." My own heart, head, eyes and hearing were suddenly flooded and tumbled together. I said, my voice husky from the sensation, and feeling suddenly overwhelmed. "Do you really know how valuable you are? Seriously?" Seldom have I expressed something from this much depth and intensity. It might have startled him a bit. He reacted as though he were embarrassed. If not embarrassed, then at least a little reluctant to look where I was pointing. I think he got that I was saying to him, that I thought he was valuable, and it was as though he didn't want to see where this conversation would lead personally. I leapt upon the white stallion I use for crusades, convinced that he needed to hear and act on my perception. I said, "There ought to be a full time position open for you, if you want it." I didn't wait for his answer. I charged on, "Sandra and Eleanor both could convince the principal that he ought to create a position for you. You've indicated you could use the money. You wouldn't have to pay for your own computer disks and printer paper, then..." I ran out of steam because John was trying to stop me.

Waving his hands, negatively, shaking his head, no, he said, "I don't want to work at a job. I don't want to be obligated, almost forced, to have to work, 'specially at a job that was created just for me. I want to be in charge of my own time, I can't make it to school every day, or even on a schedule, for that matter. I could use the money, I know. But how would I feel about Washington, Sandra, Eleanor and everyone, if I worked there?"

He emphasized the word "work" so plaintively, so forlornly, that I immediately saw what a loss it would mean to him. I hopped off my charger, probably giving up this crusade faster and easier than any I have ever quested before, because I heard what John said. His freedom, both of action and choice, was threatened by an artificial commitment to a job, while working within his restricted world, he was totally free to volunteer. From this freedom came an even greater commitment, one that I can only wave at in acknowledgement.

This is what I want to tell you John. I never had a chance to tell you verbally that I know how you valued your freedom . I let you know only by accepting you, and that because you accepted me.

(John eventually did receive pay for working at Washington. The department authorized so many hours per week and let John work those hours as he felt he could. It was perfect for him.)

Washington Elementary School Staff 1982 - 1983