Sometimes, if
you’re really lucky, you find a friend.
You might think you have made all the real friends you’re ever gonna
have, and you content yourself with that. And then, unexpectedly, inexplicably,
and to your never-ending gratitude, you find a brand new friend, and you know
it right away. That’s how it was
for me with Ted. I would come to
work early in the morning and feel a sense of reassurance that Ted was already
there, already humming. He
became my Yaqui Indian guru, mentor teacher, and confidante all rolled into one. Ted had a
funny way of helping me to believe in myself but not take myself too seriously,
either.
I soon found out that others felt
the same way about Ted. He was the special gift of Vista de Las Cruces
School. I’m not even sure what his official job title was -- maybe custodian? -- but
teacher would have been more accurate. Children learn not by what we say, but
by what we do, which means that for many years Ted was quietly teaching our
kids about service, about respect, and about love for humanity. Ted drove a school bus, translated at Spanish-speaking parent conferences, informally counseled and
mentored kids in a way no one else could, and kept our campus ship-shape. He
turned a plot of sand into a cactus garden. He turned feeling into a
song. He turned pain into wisdom. He turned barbecued tri-tip into a work of
art.
Even after I left Vista, Ted
continued to be my buddy. He would surprise me in my new classroom at Dunn
Middle School, often with a king-size apple fritter or a box of donuts for the
kids. Ted grew up with music, from church choir to honky tonk, and when I briefly flirted with learning to play the
guitar, he brought me an Ernie Ball beginner's book and an enthusiasm I didn't
deserve. (I dropped the fantasy very quickly.) Whenever our good friend Mort,
the third musketeer, came into town we would meet in Solvang and they would
make music and I would wish I could, but it was great fun just to listen. One
day Ted gave me an old framed photograph of himself with his brothers and their
music teacher, a slender lady wearing glasses and a 1950s schoolteacher dress. She beams with pride and all of the boys are grinning and holding their
guitars. The picture has a prominent place on a bookshelf in my living room.
I was still teaching at Vista when Ted decided to retire. I realized that we needed to do something special for him and I am pleased to say I led a movement to name the auditorium in his honor. On the night of its dedication, the entire school assembled there along with friends and family of Ted’s from near and far. There was a concert, of course, and a rendition of “Chunk of Coal” which is sort of Ted’s theme song and in truth belongs to all of us who are aspiring to become better versions of ourselves.
I was one of the speakers. “Listen closely," I proclaimed, "for this room rings with the voices of children, it echoes with music, it is filled with life. We have feasted in here, we have sung songs and performed plays, we have played games and even lassoed a piñata. This noisy and wonderful room buzzes with activity and warmth. It is the center of the school, the place where we gather together and know that we are not alone. From this day forward, this room shall be called The Ted Martinez Auditorium.”
I'm so glad we did that.
About a year or two ago, Ted had a heart attack, with all sorts of complications, and he abruptly withdrew from social contact, preferring to be private in his frailty and suffering. The last time I talked to him was on the phone last summer. I asked if I could stop by and visit him sometime, and he said he wasn’t ready. “If I’m gonna have a conversation with anyone, I wanna be able to be at least a 50% participant. I’ll let you know.”
And I never heard from him again, but I managed to connect with his wife Angie a few weeks ago. I learned that Ted is living in the desert now. That old Yaqui Indian, he always did like the desert. Angie says he’s comfortable.
Recently I went back to Vista for an art show and fund-raising event held in the auditorium. I paused at the entrance to look again at the plaque that bears Ted’s name and this inscription, “Acciones, mas que palabras, son las pruebas de amor.” (Works, more than words, are the proofs of love.) I mentioned to the principal that I knew the man for whom this auditorium was named, but the principal didn’t appear to be even remotely interested. In fact, I had a hard time finding anyone there who had known Ted. I suppose that’s because the kids whose lives he touched have grown up and scattered. But you know what? Living on in many hearts is way more meaningful than having your name attached to a building.
I am fond of a certain poem by Luis Omar Salinas that he wrote about his father. It makes me think of my own father, of course, but also of Ted. And I offer it here this time for Ted, my good friend in the desert, a man with dignity, an old chunk of coal who long ago became a diamond. It concludes:
The truth of it is, he’s the scholar,
and
when the bitter-hard reality
comes
at me like a punishing
evil
stranger, I can always
remember
that here was a man
who
was a worker and provider,
who
learned the simple facts
in
life and lived by them,
who
held no pretense.
And
when he leaves without
benefit
of fanfare or applause
I
shall have learned what little
there
is about greatness.
