The other day, I was reading an incredibly moving article published in the Oregonian. The piece was about a man named Larry Israelson who, in 1972, transferred out of the class of his gay teacher, James Atteberry. Because Atteberry's sexual orientation was beginning to become well known, and because Israelson was Atteberry's "pet," Israelson endured a great deal of bullying. It was too much for the twelve-year-old to handle, and he transferred out of Atteberry's class, not offering any explanation.
Forty years passed, and as an adult that moment was always on Israelson's mind. He tried many times, in vain, to track down Atteberry. Finally, he found a lead in a news article written by Tom Hallman, Jr., the writer of the Oregonian piece I'm talking about. Hallman then acted as an intermediary between the two men, and the piece ends with a beautiful moment of reconciliation.
Atteberry had always wondered why Israelson had left his class. Had he been the problem? Was it something he did or said to this student?
Now he knew.
He set the letter aside, went to his computer and typed Israelson's name into the search box. He found the address and a telephone number.
Should he?
Of course.
More than 1,000 miles away, a phone rang.
A man answered.
Larry, a voice on the other end said, this is your teacher.
Please, go read
the entire article. But grab the Kleenex first.
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It occurred to me as I was reading the article that it was about so much more than Israelson, Atteberry, and an unfortunate incident in 1972. It's about regret, forgiveness, and above all, second chances. I'm sure very few of us have gone through an incident similar to Israelson's, but the reality is that all of us can relate to having regret and wanting to take something back. All of us, at one time or another, have been assholes. Not that I think Israelson was completely at fault, because having been bullied myself, I can certainly understand that response, especially at the age of twelve. But we all have moments that fill us with regret and that haunt us for the rest of our lives.
I have a somewhat stupid one. Only, it's not that stupid to me, because the moment has stuck with me since childhood.
I don't know how old I was...probably ten or younger. At that point, my maternal grandmother, who lived in central Indiana, was still alive, and we visited from Pennsylvania at least once a year. She had a neighbor who had a child around my age named Jerry. Whenever we visited Indiana, Jerry and I would play and, inevitably, get into trouble together. I didn't know it at the time, but Jerry lived in a very poor, troubled, abusive home. Which might explain why he spent so much time at my grandma's house. But I had no concept of income inequality or abuse at that age, so to me, he was just a buddy.
Well, during this particular visit, I was going through a tattle-tale phase. It didn't matter who it was or what they were doing--if they were remotely breaking the rules or doing something naughty, I would "tell." In retrospect, I was a little asshole during this phase.
Jerry, his little sister, and I were watching movies in my grandma's spare bedroom one night. Jerry started jumping on the bed. Since it was my grandma's house and I felt like I was an authority on my grandma's rules--and one of those rules was not jumping on the bed, because I'd been yelled at previously over that--I told him that he should stop. He didn't. Being the tattle-tale that I was, I immediately informed my grandma.
All hell broke loose. Jerry and I must have previously gotten into trouble that day or something, because the reaction was quick and severe. Grandma ordered Jerry and his sister out of the house. I was only expecting Jerry to get scolded so I could say "I told you so," but instead I got him kicked out.
I may have been under ten when this happened, but I still remember the way he looked at me as he was leaving, and I still remember his voice when he said, "What the heck!?"
I felt awful. My tattle-tale phase came to an immediate end that night. Unfortunately, so did my friendship with Jerry. We never spoke again. He moved away shortly after that incident, never to be heard from again. My grandmother has since passed away, so any hope of ever communicating with Jerry again is lost. I don't even remember his last name.
It probably sounds silly, but it has always bothered me. I don't know if Jerry even remembers the incident (or me), but, even though fifteen years have passed, I would love to have a second chance. Or, at the very least, to say I'm sorry to him.
Do you have a moment of regret you'd like to share?
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