Читать книгу The Immortality of Influence: - Cecil Murphey - Страница 8

During my early years as a teacher at Vaux, I overheard someone mention that there had been a fire at the home of one of my students, Lovisha Love-Diggs. That afternoon I visited the house and saw that it was badly damaged.

The family had many needs, but the most immediate was to have a place to stay for a few days. Lovisha had several younger brothers and a sister. After we talked, I felt I had to do something. They didn’t have much money. I didn’t either, but their need was more important than my bank balance. I dropped them off at a nearby motel and they were able to get a room at an extremely low rate. I had enough money to help pay for a one-week stay and some food.

During my childhood, when our family was in great need, people in the community had come to our aid. I had been influenced by the compassion of others, so it seemed like helping the Love-Diggs family was the obvious thing to do. I would have reached out to any family in our community, so to me, it wasn’t a big thing.

The family, however, saw my actions differently; they never forgot what happened that day. Even today, years later, whenever I see Loveisha’s parents, they remind me of my help in their time of need.

The first time her mother mentioned how much I had helped them, I had honestly forgotten about it. I felt embarrassed and said, “It was such a small thing.”

“You don’t understand, Mr. EL. To you, it may have been a small thing. To us, it was big—very big—and we won’t ever forget.”

Afterward, I thought, “She’s right. Her perception is what counts.” I’m grateful for that, but I’m more grateful for the influence it had on Lovisha. After she graduated from Vaux, she was able to enroll in one of Philadelphia’s top magnet schools, Bodine High School, and from there she went to West Chester University. Lovisha now works as a counselor for the homeless and for those who live in shelters. I never imagined she would take on the responsibility of serving others and giving back. I’m proud of her.

After they moved back to their home, I asked Lovisha why she hadn’t told me about the fire. “I overheard two of your classmates talking about it or I wouldn’t have known,” I said.

She hung her head. “I didn’t think you would help—you or anyone. I mean, you have your own problems.”

I understood. Most children don’t want others to know they need help. Most adults probably don’t either. What I didn’t say was that I almost missed an opportunity to help a needy family because I hadn’t influenced her enough personally to allow her to share problems that affected her life inside and outside the school. She hadn’t felt comfortable enough to tell me.

That incident helped me realize that I must learn to allow others to get to know me on a personal level. I was a teacher, but I was also someone who cared about the students and their needs. I didn’t have to become their best friend, but I did have to let them realize I would be available to them when they had needs.

Shortly after I was married, I took my wife, Shawnna, to Lovisha’s church, Miller Memorial Baptist. While we were there, Shawnna met Lovisha’s brothers and sisters, her mother, and her grandparents. Of course, they told the story all over again for Shawnna.

Again, I was embarrassed and wanted to say, “It happened a long time ago. It wasn’t that big a deal.” They were still grateful and I didn’t want to take away anything from their appreciation.

As I listened to them tell the story to my wife, I learned another important lesson. I came to understand the power of personal influence. It’s not that we intentionally do things just to influence or change others—that’s manipulation—but the right kind of influence happens when we help others. Our actions flow out of who we are. We demonstrate to others things we often can’t put into words.

Although we’re often unaware, one small act can change a life. For Lovisha and her family, I assumed I was just another teacher at her school. But when the opportunity came and I acted upon it, my actions became significant and I exerted a strong influence on their lives.

In a similar example, my coauthor, Cecil Murphey, told me a story about his time as a seminary student. He rode a motorcycle to school every day. He was extremely conservative and closed to opinions that didn’t agree with him. One day Cec had a fairly serious accident on the motorcycle that kept him in bed for a week.

His wife notified the seminary. The first person to visit was a professor, Hal Lyon—whom he considered one of the most liberal members of the staff. Dr. Lyon came to my friend’s apartment, talked to him, and prayed with him. When he finished, the teacher had tears in his eyes.

“He and I never agreed on theology,” Cec said, “but he opened me up. I was able to listen and to appreciate people who disagreed with me.”

The two men also became friends in the process.

That’s the power of personal influence at work. I’ve had many experiences in my life with teachers and coaches who have influenced me—directly or indirectly. That includes individuals who start organizations to help youth, who influence people in a personal way with their work.

I don’t mean to refer simply to areas like teaching and coaching. I want to truly communicate the power of our personal influence. For example, my pastor at Calvary Baptist Church in North Philadelphia, Sean Wise, has had a powerful effect on me. Sometimes he and I talk and that’s helpful. But his influence is even more evident and powerful when he stands at the pulpit. He gives illustrations from his personal life. Because he makes himself vulnerable to us, his illustrations and messages stay with us. We see him as a person who not only speaks to us but who also lives the Christian life, or as we often say, “He not only talks the talk, but he walks the walk.”

No one is perfect, and sometimes I think it’s important that we let others see how imperfect we are. Of course, they’ll see that anyway, but we need to let others know we’re aware of our own imperfections. That helps them to open up to us. When we show our failures and imperfections, we’re influencing people. It is a way to say, “I make mistakes just like you do. We can move beyond mistakes and we can learn from them. Failing at something doesn’t make us failures.”

People are more likely to listen to us when they know they’ve made a human connection with us. That connection comes through stories about our life or personal influences, whether verbal or nonverbal.

Some experts estimate that 85 percent of communication is nonverbal. Nonverbal communication includes body language and facial expressions. If that figure is close to correct, it’s important not only that we speak about our beliefs and principles but also that we live them. If we live authentically, we can communicate with people in such a way that we influence their attitudes and behavior.

In the fall of 1997, I turned down a substantial promotion and raise. I never imagined the tremendous influence my decision would have on the students and community surrounding the school. I had been a teacher at Vaux since 1989 and no one was going to tell me to leave my kids. I walked into the office of Principal Harold Adams. He told me he had received a phone call informing him that I had been transferred to another school and promoted to assistant principal.

“There must be a mistake,” I told him. “I haven’t applied to another school for any position.” I looked right at him and said, “I don’t want to leave Vaux. I want to be here for these young people.”

Mr. Adams knew, perhaps better than I did, that at times he and I were the only positive male role models that those young people encountered. What better place to encounter positive male role models than in school?

“The superintendent’s office called and the decision has been made,” he said. “You are being transferred.”

As I walked out of the office, I said to myself, “Mr. Adams doesn’t understand. I’m not leaving these young people. The superintendent doesn’t understand that I’m not leaving these young people. Maybe later I’ll agree to a transfer, but right now the children need me.”

I was angry enough to take on the school district or the entire city in order to stay at Vaux. Later in the day, I received a call from the superintendent’s office and I repeated, “At this point, I have made a positive impact, and I know I can influence the lives of many of these young people.”

“You have been transferred,” the assistant to the superintendent told me when I phoned.

“I’m not leaving,” I said. “I can’t go. I need to be here for these young people.”

“We respect your wishes, but you are being transferred. You’ll receive an official letter of notification.”

That Saturday I received the official letter telling me to which school I had been assigned and was to report on Monday. I wasn’t trying to project myself as some kind of hero and I knew I had faults—many of them—but I had grown up in the inner city. I remembered how tough it had been to grow up without a father. I had a few positive male role models (see Chapter 11), though I wish I had had more of them.

I didn’t report to the new school. Instead, on Monday morning, I walked into Vaux Middle School just as I had done for the past eight years.

The word had gotten around—as it always does in those situations. Some teachers and children assumed I would leave, but I was committed to stay. Before I left school Friday afternoon, I had told everyone I would see them on Monday. Until I walked into the building Monday morning, they hadn’t believed me.

“I’m glad you chose to stay.” I don’t remember how many other teachers and children said that, but it felt so good to know that they were happy I had not gone. I actually thought some had wanted me to leave until I saw their faces.

It didn’t take any serious thinking to make my decision not to leave. I didn’t regret it then or even now, almost ten years later. I made the right choice. Life is always filled with choices, and we can choose to stay in many different situations and exert personal influence, or we can leave. I refused to desert the young people.

I’ve tried to impress on students at my school to make their decisions and to stick with them. “Stay in school. Graduate from high school and go to college.” I want them to make good choices, and I want to be there to encourage them after they make those crucial decisions.

Of course, I have had disappointments. I can name a number of former students who didn’t go on to college and a few who dropped out before finishing high school. Each time I think of what life will be like for them I am saddened. Then I remind myself of people like Otis Bullock, who not only graduated from college, but went on to Temple University Law School. He graduated, passed the bar exam, and has started to practice law in the inner city. Those are the encouraging ones.

I think of Blair Biggs, who graduated from Lincoln University in Pennsylvania as an honor student, and Samirah Lawson, one of my first female chess players, who graduated from Morgan State University in Maryland. I laugh when I think of the many pranks that Quan Carr played on the other students at Vaux and on me, but he stayed the course and graduated from Virginia State University. Both Rodney Veney and Shawn Murphy graduated from Cheyney University in Pennsylvania. Rodney, who has completed his master’s degree, was a young man whom many people thought would never graduate from high school.

Rodney grew up in a tough neighborhood like all of his friends and graduated from Reynolds and Vaux. He constantly seemed to move along with the wrong crowd. But Rodney had something inside him. Even though he didn’t know it, he was waiting for the adults to say, “You can achieve.”

Several teachers at Reynolds and at Vaux saw the potential in him. “You can make it,” they said in many different ways. “Because you’ve grown up in the projects doesn’t mean you can’t make it.”

They let him know that where he came from didn’t have to determine where he was going. The teachers at Ben Franklin High School encouraged Shawn and Rodney to go on to college.

Shawn is now working as a behavioral counselor in an inner-city middle school and planning to attend graduate school.

Rodney and Shawn, along with many of my other students in Philadelphia, hear these words from me quite often: “When other people tell you that you’re going to the state pen, you tell them, ‘No, I’m choosing to go to Penn State.’ That’s what you say to people and you say it to yourself. After a while you’ll see it begin to become a solid principle right in your own life. You begin to influence yourself by saying, ‘I’m going to college, and I’m going to get educated.’”

There are others whose lives have encouraged me and helped me to believe in the profound power of personal influence. One of our top chess players, Demetrius Carroll, chose to attend Kutztown University. He had been offered a scholarship to every state university in Pennsylvania. Some other chess players such as Nathan Durant and Earl Jenkins made the same choice to enter Kutztown. Those young men have been together since sixth grade and were members of the Vaux national champion chess team. Now they’re roommates in college and will soon graduate.

I want to tell you about Demetrius Carroll. His father didn’t live with him, his mother moved to South Carolina, and he was raised by an older sister and an aunt. Before he came to Vaux, he already knew how to play chess, but he had been kicked off the team because of his behavior. Mr. Jackson, who oversaw the chess program at the Robert Morris School, said Demetrius wouldn’t listen to him. Mr. Leroy Harvey, who is my fraternity brother in Kappa Alpha Psi and a good friend, saw great potential in Demetrius. He recognized the boy’s many discipline problems and agreed he should be removed from the team. Like many young boys who grow up in homes where there are no men, Demetrius didn’t know how to respond to discipline from a man.

Mr. Harvey asked me if I would take an interest in Demetrius when he came to Vaux. He cared about his student and asked me to care as well. Without the slightest hesitation, I agreed.

When Demetrius came to Vaux, he changed. Somehow, the positive influences from Mr. Harvey and others had taken effect. Demetrius not only played chess, but became one of the best chess players ever to live in his community.

My fondest memories of Demetrius are from the chess tournament at Parsippany, New Jersey, in 1997. He and his family had recently moved and his clothes were in storage, but he decided to go to the tournament anyway. Despite the circumstances, he was absolutely determined to do his best. We had to buy him clothes to wear. I smiled as I watched him. As he dressed, his tie had to be straight, and his suit had to be neat and clean (even though it would be wrinkled by the end of the day). His commitment and determination paid off. At Parsippany, he defeated an expert-level player, something that had not happened in thirty-five years at that tournament. To see Demetrius overcome some very large obstacles and be inducted into the National Honor Society was uplifting.

To watch Demetrius win at the U.S. Amateur East Chess Championship was truly an exciting moment. The U.S. Amateur East is the largest team-versus-team event in the world, even larger than the Olympics, with more than 220 teams. I was proud of Demetrius and his teammates, who beat players from Bucknell University—and a team of four men whose combined age was more than two hundred years. This was beyond everyone’s belief.

Afterward, several tournament officials told me, “We want to honor that young man. We’re going to treat him and your entire team to dinner in the hotel restaurant.”

“Sir, are you sure you want to let my children in your hotel restaurant?” I asked. This was the Parsippany Hilton. “These are inner-city kids and they don’t know what it’s like to eat in a place like that. If you want to do something for them, give me a few dollars and I’ll take them to McDonald’s.”

“No, we want them to have a special dinner so we can honor them.”

“Sir, you don’t want to let my children—”

“No, this was a great achievement and has never been done before in thirty-five years. We want to treat all of the children to dinner.”

I didn’t argue again. Just before we ate, I took the children to the side and I said, “Listen, we’re going to go in this big restaurant and we’re going to eat.” I tried to explain that this was big-time. “So if you see something on the menu and can’t pronounce it, don’t order it.”

We went in, sat down, and received menus. Of course, they ordered filet mignon and crab bisque (“fill-it mig-non” and “bis-kay” to the kids). They couldn’t pronounce the words but they ordered them anyway.

I shook my head and laughed.

In retrospect, I’m glad they had that opportunity. This was new for them. That evening, they began to realize that there are young people who eat in expensive places every day, or at least every week. They saw other children who were exposed to nice restaurants and excellent environments. That also told them, “You have eaten here once; you can do it again.”

I realized it was important for our children to have that experience. It’s no accident that most of those young people present at that dinner are in college now.

More recently, Demetrius was nominated for the National Collegiate Honor Society. At the time he was going through a most difficult period in college—his Aunt Francine had died. She had raised him as her son. It was a tough time for Demetrius but that young man had already overcome so much.

That’s the power of self-discipline and personal influence.

Denise Pickard, who became famous for defeating Arnold Schwarzenegger in a chess match, is now in college. She followed her chess buddies Demetrius, Earl, and Nathan to Kutztown University in Pennsylvania. Anthony Harper, another student who played chess for us, has become a phenomenal basketball player, and he still plays chess. He’s in college in West Virginia. I learned recently that he had been offered scholarships to about fifteen four-year colleges across the country. Thomas Allen, who played the 1999 Nationals in Ohio without losing a single game, is in college in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Latoria Spann, who knew the French Defense better than any boy to ever touch a chess piece at Vaux, is in college in Philadelphia studying nursing.

Those were all children who started playing chess and were exposed to environments where they could see the benefits of getting educated. I saw how important personal influence was. Those students have accomplished many great things and I am proud of every one of them.

When I was offered additional money and authority to leave Vaux Middle School, it didn’t take me a second to turn down that money. The transfer had nothing to do with money. I refused because some of those young people depended on me. The children didn’t know, but this worked both ways: I also needed them.

This isn’t a job where I simply spread my arms and do all the giving. I have also received—more than I can possibly explain. I draw a lot of my inspiration from the passion of my students and their families. When I talk to their parents and see the earnestness in their eyes and hear the concern in their hearts, I am proud they allow me to influence their children. They believe their children can become successful—or at least they want them to try.

Part of my concern is that people sacrifice their relationships—that is, they don’t recognize the power of their personal imprint. They don’t spend enough time with their spouses or their children. I’m guilty myself and I’m committed to making changes. Some of us are so busy doing things in the community or putting our energies into our work that we have nothing left for the most important people in our lives. I almost lost my family because of my inability to see how much they needed me. On many occasions, my wife and children would be home while I was at the school or some community event. The life of the spouse of an educator can be lonely. Our work requires so much time spent away from home. Several times Shawnna told me that I was ruining our relationship by spending so much of my time at school and chess tournaments with the students.

When I took the chess team to Parsippany, New Jersey, I made that trip without my wife’s blessing. Officials had scheduled the tournament on Valentine’s Day and my wife had eagerly looked forward to spending the day with me.

I begged her to allow me to take the students on the trip and celebrate with her at a later date. Shawnna didn’t argue because she wanted to support my work in the community. But I knew—even then—that she preferred to have me home to be with her. I failed her. She asks so little of me.

The students played successfully, and it was one of our great triumphs. However, by the time I returned to Philadelphia, I had admitted to myself that I was wrong. Almost as soon as I walked inside our house, I said, “I’m sorry. I was wrong. I shouldn’t have gone. I could have sent someone else.”

Shawnna forgave me. She understood my passion for the children and my dedication to the community. I’m grateful, but this was a matter of priority. I had failed. Shawnna is my wife, the person I love most in the world. She also needed to know that I had a personal commitment to her—a commitment that came first. By going to Parsippany on Valentine’s Day, I had placed my career and personal interest before my family.

“I won’t make that mistake again,” I promised. “You’re too important to me.”