At this morning’s liturgy, Fr Fran Stiegeler, SJ, spoke about a valuable life lesson he learned while an Army Ranger, and it reminded me of one of my more memorable and positive experiences as a student at SI.
Fr Stiegeler’s story was about a combat-orientation exercise wherein the squad was told to move from one side of a field to the other; the field was darkened with smoke and tear gas. the Rangers were told to link arms, move across the field together, and to never let go. On the first attempt, soldiers either fell behind or moved ahead on their own — and not a single one made it across the field. On the second attempt, they didn’t let go of either soldier on either side, and every one of them made it to the opposite side successfully. The lesson he learned was that when you hold onto someone next to you, you can both do things that neither can do alone.
Sitting in Orradre Chapel, I thought of that, and I thought about standing on the corner of Geneva and Mission in 1989, in the cold and the dark, waiting for the 29 Sunset to take me to school. One particularly cold winter morning, I remember a car driving past, westbound on Geneva, making two u-turns to come back to the corner I was on, and pulling over to the curb. The driver rolled down his window, and asked, “You’re a freshman at SI, right? I’m a Senior — get in, let me drive you to school.” To me, that is the traditional cheer: “We are SI.” That’s how SI does things: we look out for each other — always and anywhere.
As a teacher, I’ve tried to communicate this to students by telling them that story, and by encouraging that kind of community. I’ve also tried to foster that sense with colleagues. I know that I may not be the most social person on the faculty, but there’s strength in this community of adults — especially when you need it. But that’s expected; what I like is that there is a community among the adults in small things too. People drop by your classroom or office just to say Hi, or just to check-in with you. Maybe they come to share a funny story from class, or maybe they stop by to process a failed lesson plan. It’s those small conversations that I actually love the most — because they’re not expected, they’re not “required” — they come from a place of real care and affection. And they help.