Pay It Forward

October 2002

M
aybe someday I’ll have kids of my own. I hope so. If I do, they’ll probably ask what part I played in the movement that changed the world. And because I’m not the person I once was, I’ll tell them the truth. My part was nothing. I did nothing. I was just the guy in the corner taking notes.

My name is Chris Chandler and I’m an investigative reporter. Or at least I was. Until I found out that actions have consequences, and not everything is under my control. Until I found out that I couldn’t change the world at all, but a seemingly ordinary twelve-year-old boy could change the world completely—for the better, and forever—working with nothing but his own altruism, one good idea, and a couple of years. And a big sacrifice.

And a splash of publicity. That’s where I came in.

I can tell you how it all started.

It started with a teacher who moved to Atascadero, California, to teach social studies to junior high school students. A teacher nobody knew very well, because they couldn’t get past his face. Because it was hard to look at his face.

It started with a boy who didn’t seem all that remarkable on the outside, but who could see past his teacher’s face.

It started with an assignment that this teacher had given out a hundred times before, with no startling results. But that assignment in the hands of that boy caused a seed to be planted, and after that nothing in the world would ever be the same. Nor would anybody want it to be.

And I can tell you what it became. In fact, I’ll tell you a story that will help you understand how big it grew.

About a week ago my car stalled in a busy intersection, and it wouldn’t start again no matter how many times I tried. It was rush hour, and I thought I was in a hurry. I thought I had something important to do, and it couldn’t wait. So I was standing in the middle of the intersection looking under the hood, which was a misguided effort because I can’t fix cars. What did I think I would see?

I’d been expecting this. It was an old car. It was as good as gone.

A man came up behind me, a stranger.

“Let’s get it off to the side of the road,” he said. “Here. I’ll help you push.” When we got it—and ourselves—to safety he handed me the keys to his car. A nice silver Acura, barely two years old. “You can have mine,” he said. “We’ll trade.”

He didn’t give me the car as a loan. He gave it to me as a gift. He took my address, so he could send me the title. And he did send the title; it just arrived today.

“A great deal of generosity has come into my life lately,” the note said, “so I felt I could take your old car and use it as a trade-in. I can well afford something new, so why not give as good as I’ve received?”

That’s what kind of world it’s become. No, actually it’s more. It’s become even more. It’s not just the kind of world in which a total stranger will give me his car as a gift. It’s the kind of world in which the day I received that gift was not dramatically different from all other days. Such generosity has become the way of things. It’s become commonplace.

So this much I understand well enough to relate: it started as
an extra credit assignment for a social studies class and turned into a world where no one goes hungry, no one is cold, no one is without a job or a ride or a loan.

And yet at first people needed to know more. Somehow it was not enough that a boy barely in his teens was able to change the world. Somehow it had to be known why the world could change at just that moment, why it could not have changed a moment sooner, what Trevor brought to that moment, and why it was the very thing that moment required.

And that, unfortunately, is the part I can’t explain.

I was there. Every step of the way I was there. But I was a different person then. I was looking in all the wrong places. I thought it was just a story, and the story was all that mattered. I cared about Trevor, but by the time I cared about him enough it was too late. I thought I cared about my work, but I didn’t know what my work could really mean until it was over. I wanted to make lots of money. I did make lots of money. I gave it all away.

I don’t know who I was then, but I know who I am now.

Trevor changed me, too.

I thought Reuben would have the answers. Reuben St. Clair, the teacher who started it all. He was closer to Trevor than anybody except maybe Trevor’s mother, Arlene. And Reuben was looking in all the right places, I think. And I believe he was paying attention.

So, after the fact, when it was my job to write books about the movement, I asked Reuben two important questions.

“What was it about Trevor that made him different?” I asked.

Reuben thought carefully and then said, “The thing about Trevor was that he was just like everybody else, except for the part of him that wasn’t.”

I didn’t even ask what part that was. I’m learning.

Then I asked, “When you first handed out that now-famous assignment, did you think that one of your students would actually change the world?”

And Reuben replied, “No, I thought they all would. But perhaps in smaller ways.”

I’m becoming someone who asks fewer questions. Not everything can be dissected and understood. Not everything has a simple answer. That’s why I’m not a reporter anymore. When you lose interest in questions, you’re out of a job. That’s okay. I wasn’t as good at it as I should have been. I didn’t bring anything special to the game.

People gradually stopped needing to know why. We adjust quickly to change, even as we rant and rail and swear we never will. And everybody likes a change if it’s a change for the better. And no one likes to dwell on the past if the past is ugly and everything is finally going well.

The most important thing I can add from my own observations is this: knowing it started from unremarkable circumstances should be a comfort to us all. Because it proves that you don’t need much to change the entire world for the better. You can start with the most ordinary ingredients. You can start with the world you’ve got.

January 1992

T
he woman smiled so politely that he felt offended.

“Let me tell Principal Morgan that you’re here, Mr. St. Clair. She’ll want to talk with you.” She walked two steps, turned back. “She likes to talk to everyone, I mean. Any new teacher.”

“Of course.”

He should have been used to this by now.

More than three minutes later she emerged from the principal’s office, smiling too widely. Too openly. People always display far too much acceptance, he’d noticed, when they are having trouble mustering any for real.

“Go right on in, Mr. St. Clair. She’ll see you.”

“Thank you.”

The principal appeared to be about ten years older than he, with a great deal of dark hair, worn up, a Caucasian and attractive. And attractive women always made him hurt, literally, a long pain that started high up in his solar plexus and radiated downward through his gut. As if he had just asked this attractive woman to the theater, only to be told, You must be joking.

“We are so pleased to meet you face-to-face, Mr. St. Clair.”
Then she flushed, as if the mention of the word “face” had been an unforgivable faux pas.

“Please call me Reuben.”

“Reuben, yes. And I’m Anne.”

She met him with a steady, head-on gaze, and at no time appeared startled. So she had been verbally prepared by her assistant. And somehow the only thing worse than an unprepared reaction was the obviously rehearsed absence of one.

He hated these moments so.

He was, by his own admission, a man who should stay in one place. But the same factors that made it hard to start over made it hard to stay.

She motioned toward a chair and he sat. Crossed his legs. The crease of his slacks was neatly, carefully pressed. He’d chosen his tie the previous night, to go well with the suit. He was a demon about grooming, although he knew no one would ever really see. He appreciated these habits in himself, even if, or because, no one else did.

“I’m not quite what you were expecting, am I, Anne?”

The use of her first name brought it back, but more acutely. It was very hard to talk to an attractive woman.

“In what respect?”

“Please don’t do this. You must appreciate how many times I’ve replayed this same scene. I can’t bear to talk around an obvious issue.”

She tried to establish eye contact, as one normally would when addressing a coworker in conversation, but she could not make it stick. “I understand,” she said.

I doubt it, he said, but not out loud.

“It is human nature,” he said out loud, “to form a picture of someone in your mind. You read a résumé and an application, and you see I’m forty-four, a black male, a war veteran with a good educational background. And you think you see me. And because you are not prejudiced, you hire this black man to move to your
town, teach at your school. But now I arrive to test the limits of your open mind. It’s easy not to be prejudiced against a black man, because we have all seen hundreds of those.”

“If you think your position is in any jeopardy, Reuben, you’re worrying for nothing.”

“Do you really have this little talk with everyone?”

“Of course I do.”

“Before they even address their first class?”

Pause. “Not necessarily. I just thought we might discuss the subject of…initial adjustment.”

“You worry that my appearance will alarm the students.”

“What has your experience been with that in the past?”

“The students are always easy, Anne. This is the difficult moment. Always.”

“I understand.”

“With all respect, I’m not sure you do,” he said. Out loud.

A
T HIS FORMER SCHOOL,
in Cincinnati, Reuben had a friend named Louis Tartaglia. Lou had a special way of addressing an unfamiliar class. He would enter, on that first morning, with a yardstick in his hand. Walk right into the flap and fray. They like to test a teacher, you see, at first. This yardstick was Lou’s own, bought and carried in with him. A rather thin, cheap one. He always bought the same brand at the same store. Then he would ask for silence, which he never received on the first request. After counting to three, he would bring this yardstick up over his head and smack it down on the desktop in such a way that it would break in two. The free half would fly up into the air behind him, hit the blackboard, and clatter to the floor. Then, in the audible silence to follow, he would say, simply, “Thank you.” And would have no trouble with the class after that.

Reuben warned him that someday a piece would fly in the wrong direction and hit a student, causing a world of problems, but it had always worked as planned, so far as he knew.

“It boils down to unpredictability,” Lou explained. “Once they see you as unpredictable, you hold the cards.”

Then he asked what Reuben did to quiet an unfamiliar and unruly class, and Reuben replied that he had never experienced the problem; he had never been greeted by anything but stony silence and was never assumed to be predictable.

“Oh. Right,” Lou said, as if he should have known better. And he should have.

R
EUBEN STOOD BEFORE THEM,
for the first time, both grateful for and resentful of their silence. Outside the windows on his right was California, a place he’d never been before. The trees were different; the sky did not say winter as it had when he’d started the long drive from Cincinnati. He wouldn’t say from home, because it was not his home, not really. And neither was this. And he’d grown tired of feeling like a stranger.

He performed a quick head count, seats per row, number of rows. “Since I can see you’re all here,” he said, “we will dispense with the roll call.”

It seemed to break a spell, that he spoke, and the students shifted a bit, made eye contact with one another. Whispered across aisles. Neither better nor worse than usual. To encourage this normality, he turned away to write his name on the board.
Mr. St. Clair.
Also wrote it out underneath,
Saint Clair,
as an aid to pronunciation. Then paused before turning back, so they would have time to finish reading his name.

In his mind, his plan, he thought he’d start right off with the assignment. But it caved from under him, like skidding down the
side of a sand dune. He was not Lou, and sometimes people needed to know him first. Sometimes he was startling enough on his own, before his ideas even showed themselves.

“Maybe we should spend this first day,” he said, “just talking. Since you don’t know me at all. We can start by talking about appearances. How we feel about people because of how they look. There are no rules. You can say anything you want.”

Apparently they did not believe him yet, because they said the same things they might have with their parents looking on. To his disappointment.

Then, in what he supposed was an attempt at humor, a boy in the back row asked if he was a pirate.

“No,” he said. “I’m not. I’m a teacher.”

“I thought only pirates wore eye patches.”

“People who have lost eyes wear eye patches. Whether they are pirates or not is beside the point.”

T
HE CLASS FILED OUT
, to his relief, and he looked up to see a boy standing in front of his desk. A thin white boy, but very dark-haired, possibly part Hispanic, who said, “Hi.”

“Hello.”

“What happened to your face?”

Reuben smiled, which was rare for him, being self-conscious about the lopsided effect. He pulled a chair around so the boy could sit facing him and motioned for him to sit, which he did without hesitation. “What’s your name?”

“Trevor.”

“Trevor what?”

“McKinney. Did I hurt your feelings?”

“No, Trevor. You didn’t.”

“My mom says I shouldn’t ask people things like that, because
it might hurt their feelings. She says you should act like you didn’t notice.”

“Well, what your mom doesn’t know, Trevor, because she’s never been in my shoes, is that if you act like you didn’t notice, I still know that you did. And then it feels strange that we can’t talk about it when we’re both thinking about it. Know what I mean?”

“I think so. So, what happened?”

“I was injured in a war.”

“In Vietnam?”

“That’s right.”

“My daddy was in Vietnam. He says it’s a hellhole.”

“I would tend to agree. Even though I was only there for seven weeks.”

“My daddy was there two years.”

“Was he injured?”

“Maybe a little. I think he has a sore knee.”

“I was supposed to stay two years, but I got hurt so badly that I had to come home. So, in a way I was lucky that I didn’t have to stay, and in a way your daddy was lucky because he didn’t get hurt that badly. If you know what I mean.” The boy didn’t look too sure that he did. “Maybe someday I’ll meet your dad. Maybe on parents’ night.”

“I don’t think so. We don’t know where he is. What’s under the eye patch?”

“Nothing.”

“How can it be nothing?”

“It’s like nothing was ever there. Do you want to see?”

“You bet.”

Reuben took off the patch.

No one seemed to know quite what he meant by “nothing,” until they saw it. No one seemed prepared for the shock of “nothing” where there would be an eye on everyone else they had ever met. The boy’s head rocked back a little, then he nodded. Kids were easier. Reuben replaced the patch.

“Sorry about your face. But you know, it’s only just that one side. The other side looks real good.”

“Thank you, Trevor. I think you are the first person to offer me that compliment.”

“Well, see ya.”

“Good-bye, Trevor.”

Reuben moved to the window and looked out over the front lawn. Watched students clump and talk and run on the grass, until Trevor appeared, trotting down the front steps.

It was ingrained in Reuben to defend this moment, and he could not have returned to his desk if he’d tried. This he could not release. He needed to know if Trevor would run up to the other boys to flaunt his new knowledge. To collect on any bets or tell any tales, which Reuben would not hear, only imagine from his second-floor perch, his face flushing under the imagined words. But Trevor trotted past the boys without so much as a glance, stopping to speak to no one.

It was almost time for Reuben’s second class to arrive. So he had to get started, preparing himself to do it all over again.

From
The Other Faces Behind the Movement
by Chris Chandler

There is nothing monstrous or grotesque about my face. I get to state this with a certain objectivity, being perhaps the only one capable of such. I am the only one used to seeing it, because I am the only one who dares, with the help of a shaving mirror, to openly stare.

I have undergone eleven operations, all in all, to repair what was, at one time, unsightly damage. The area that was my left eye, and the lost bone and muscle under cheek and brow, have been neatly covered with skin removed from my thigh. I have endured numerous skin grafts and plastic surgery. Only a few of these
were necessary for health or function. Most were intended to make me an easier individual to meet. The final result is a smooth, complete absence of an eye, as if one had never existed; a great loss of muscle and mass in cheek and neck; and obvious nerve damage to the left corner of my mouth. It is dead, so to speak, and droops. But after many years of remedial diction therapy, my speech is fairly easily understood.

So, in a sense it is not what people see in my face that disturbs them, but rather what they expect to see and do not.

I also have minimal use of my left arm, which is foreshortened and thin from resulting atrophy. My guess is that people rarely notice this until I’ve been around awhile, because my face tends to steal the show.

I have worked in schools, lounged in staff rooms, where a Band-Aid draws comment and requires explanation. Richie, what did you do to your hand? A cast on an extremity becomes a story told for six weeks, multiplied by the number of employees. Well, I was on a ladder, see, preparing to clean my storm drains….

So, it seems odd to me that no one will ask. If they suddenly did and I were forced to repeat the story, I might decide I had liked things better before. But it’s not so much that they don’t ask, but why they don’t ask, as if I am an unspeakable tragedy, as new and shocking to myself as to them.

Occasionally my left arm will draw comment, always the same one. “How lucky that it was your left.” But even this supposed consolation is misguided, because I am left-handed, by nature if not by practice.

Until I was shipped home from overseas, I had a fiancée. I still have pictures of us together. We were a handsome couple—ask anyone. To someone who wasn’t there, it might seem as if my fiancée must have been a coldhearted woman. Surely she could have married me just the same. I wish Eleanor had been a coldhearted woman, or even that I could pretend such to be the case, but unfortunately I was there. The real truth is hard to re-create.
The real truth is that we both agreed so staunchly not to see it or care about it that it was all we could see, nor had we time left over to care about anything else.

Eleanor was a strong woman, which no doubt contributed to our defeat.

She is married now and lives with her husband in Detroit. She is a plastic surgeon. I haven’t entirely decided how much significance to attribute to these facts.

Any of them.