His name was Tim, but all the kids called him Penguin.
I suppose he did bear a superficial resemblance to Danny DeVito’s character in Batman Returns – keg-shaped body, shortish legs, arms that pinwheeled wildly when he got excited – but it wasn’t a kind nickname, and it’s not how I thought of him.
See, in my class he was one of those kids who radiated warmth. He wasn’t the best writer or the most clever thinker or the most eloquent speaker, but he succeeded through sheer force of will. Whatever we were doing, Tim dug in with both feet, leveled his shoulders, and pushed. And he was usually smiling while he did it, luxuriating in the effort.
That day, the weather may as well have been ripped straight out of a Central Coast photo album: a high cerulean sky shot through with clouds in ragged streamers and wispy tendrils, the barest touch of a spring breeze whispering its fingers through the palms. It was lunch, and I was heading across campus on an errand to the main office. I saw Tim from a distance, sitting cross-legged under a tree, lunch tray in his lap, the hard plastic rectangle piled high with something indistinct.
As I got closer, Tim’s tray resolved itself, and I laughed as I saw that it held a pyramid of six hot dogs, stacked with architectural precision.
I stopped and looked down at him. Tim’s nose was buried in a book, and he hadn’t yet noticed my presence.
“Six hot dogs, Tim?”
He looked up. Looked down at his tray. Looked back up again. And smiled. Pure. Genuine.
“But Mr. M – they’re just so good.”
I don’t know what became of Tim. What he did after he graduated, where he went, whom he married, where he works now. But I carry that moment with me, even ten years later. Things weren’t easy for Tim, but he’d never let you know it. That’s rare, and worth emulating.
This, too, I learned, above all else: Enjoy the simple things and share that joy with others.
I don’t know what became of Tim. But I thank him, and I wish him well.
Teaching as Storytelling 