For Pete's Sake

It was the first day of my new life as a teacher.

I wasn't ready. 

I had just graduated from the University of Pennsylvania. During my senior year in college, I had decided to apply for a program that my high school alma mater, St. Joseph's Prep, has been running for years. It is called the Alumni Service Corps. The pitch is simple: a Prep graduate who has just finished his college studies returns to the school to offer one year of service. In return, he receives a small monthly stipend, free housing, and on-the-job training. 

It was an easy decision to apply. The two people I admire most in this world are my parents. My dad is an excellent teacher and, though I never consciously realized it, I have always wanted to be just like him. His entire life is oriented toward helping others. In that effort, he has an equal partner in my mother. Mom is one of the most generous and caring people you could ever hope to meet. For years, she organized an incredible Christmas gift operation for the adults who lived at the Cardinal Krol Center until the facility was shuttered by the Archdiocese. 

I wanted to be a teacher, too. I also hoped for an opportunity to help others. Without the education I received at the Prep, I never would have survived at Penn. Heck, I likely never would have gained admission in the first place. I owed the school a tremendous debt. The ASC Program was my opportunity to provide repayment.

After a thorough application process, I was offered a position. I would be tasked with teaching two History classes and performing other types of service at the school throughout the day. Often, this involved proctoring a class for an absent teacher or monitoring the cafeteria to ensure that students threw out their trash after they finished lunch.

It sounded like a good deal. Two classes? No problem! My plan was to get the textbooks in May and start plotting my courses in earnest. I would comb through the material to find points I could emphasize and primary sources I could introduce to complement the curriculum. Alas, the best laid plans of mice and men....

I did not find out what specific courses I would be teaching until August. I did not receive the assigned textbooks for the courses until the week before the start of the school year. 

It was a gut punch, but I opted to try my best. My best was not good enough.

My students likely smelled my fear as soon as they walked in the classroom. Here was a rank amateur trying to teach them a subject he knew well, but had zero experience in translating. I lacked the confidence to command the room, and they took advantage of my weakness. 

The pressure was too much to bear. The parents of these students were spending a fortune to send their kids to the Prep. They rightly expected a superior education. 

I began to crack. I would work late into the night, fruitlessly trying to get ahead of the curriculum. Sleep was a luxury I could not afford. When I took showers, I would find small clumps of hair falling out of my head.   

By October, I was ready to quit. The students deserved better. The school deserved better.

I deserved better, too. I was tired of raising my voice. I was tired of working relentlessly to prepare my lessons, only to be greeted with indifference when I walked into the classroom. I was tired of the person I had to become in order to survive as a new teacher. I was tired of losing sleep. I was tired of the stress. I was just tired. 

There are many people who helped carry me through that year, too many to thank, but one person in particular stands out in my memory. That person is Pete Reid.

Pete was assigned as my mentor teacher. He had just returned to the Prep after waging a successful battle with leukemia that, by all rights, should have killed him. Though he miraculously survived, his triumph over cancer was a Pyrrhic victory. Pete looked like a ghost that had somehow retained its flesh. Most of the color from his body had been sucked out of him, leaving him a pallid shell of himself. There were times when Pete's every movement seemed labored, when the simple act of rising to his feet required a herculean effort. 

And yet, the man stood up to face every challenge. His immune system had been crippled to the point that a common cold would cause an existential crisis, though I do not recall Pete requiring many days off from school. He continued to suffer, but he endured his pain with such grace and persistence. He was determined not to let the defeated cancer define his life, to rob him of any more days than it already had. He was a happy warrior. 

Pete's courage inspired me. Indeed, his example powered me through the challenges I had been experiencing. When I was overwhelmed, I turned to Pete for advice. When I felt I could not continue, I swiveled in my office chair and looked at my colleague, who refused to quit in the face of much more difficult obstacles.

We talked about all sorts of subjects. We discussed our shared love of history, of course. We debated the topics we were both teaching and shared information we had gleaned from our own reading. Pete was incredibly generous in sharing his teaching materials with me, and I tried my best to return the favor. I offered to help him grade quizzes and homework assignments, which he occasionally accepted. Looking back, I see now that Pete didn't really need my assistance, but I think he sensed that allowing me to share his burden would lighten my own. 

I made a habit of observing Pete's classes when time allowed. As I watched Pete at work, I saw a man who was completely in his element. He was a damn good teacher. He owned the classroom. He was at home there. The 200 minutes per day he was teaching history were likely his most peaceful. That time afforded him a welcome respite from the health issues that plagued him during the year.

No words, no matter how eloquent, could adequately satisfy the incredible debt I owe Pete. But words were all I had to offer when, a few months ago, I heard the news that Pete had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. It was a death sentence for a man who, in the decade since his leukemia battle, had been steadily rebuilding his life. He and his wonderful wife, Jen, had welcomed a son, PJ, into the world. He had transitioned out of the classroom and into an administrative role at the Prep, though he and the school parted ways before this academic term. To say Pete's fate was unfair does not do justice to the tragic hand life had dealt him.

However, knowing Pete, I am sure he resolved to play the hand anyway. And so I sent him a card and thanked him for his guidance and encouragement during my ASC year. I expressed my hope that the inspiration he provided me and so many others would strengthen him as he prepared once again for a bout with cancer. 

Pete Reid passed away this morning. Even our heroes can endure only so much pain.

Pete's memory lives on in all of us who were lucky enough to call him our teacher, our colleague, and our friend. Remember the lessons he imparted. Draw reassurance from his indomitable spirit. Please keep his wife and son in your thoughts and prayers. And, for Pete's sake, let's find a cure for cancer. 

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