Sharing time with students might be the enduring legacy of Catholic schools
By George Valadie
It’s a simple candy dish, but it’s like it has magical, magnetic powers.
I don’t understand it … but I do love it.
In the interest of full disclosure—and please don’t tell her I’m giving her credit—it’s an idea I stole from my wife.
In what might be a somewhat unusual working relationship for some, Nancy was my administrative assistant during 20 of the 31 years I served as a Catholic school principal. We worked 15 feet apart and we were a good team.
Somewhere along the journey she came across a Fighting Irish-themed candy dish, and since we’re monster fans, she jumped on it. Stuck it on her desk there in the front office. Filled it with Hershey’s Miniatures. Broke it once and bought another.
And for years I watched it do its thing. All ages were welcome to come by and come by they did—before, during, and after school. Some needed a quick boost. Some needed the chat that came with it.
I’m not a school principal anymore, but I know a good thing when I see it.
Almost two years ago, while sitting on our back porch, I was notified the diocesan superintendent had accepted another position. It was late spring, too late for the Chancery to conduct the sort of search that usually follows such an announcement.
And my phone rang: “Any chance you might consider helping us out?” It’s hard to say no to any bishop, but especially when he’s one you admire as much as I do ours.
We did have to navigate the fact that our family resides in Chattanooga while the Chancery is housed in Knoxville. Nice guy or not, Nancy wasn’t moving anywhere.
We agreed to some split time, different for sure—but not unmanageable—especially given the interim basis of our agreement.
So, some days I’m in Knoxville; some days I’m not. The kitchen table works but isn’t always best-suited, so the folks at Notre Dame High School were kind enough to find me a spot where I could crash every now and again.
It’s a small corner of an office that has served multiple purposes and people through the years. When the school first opened in 1965, it was a photo darkroom for newspaper and yearbook staffs and whatever other shenanigans might happen with the lights out. When film developing died, so did that need.
All sorts of people have moved in since. Like me.
And because it sits at the intersection of three hallways, one of the first things I did was get a candy dish.
It’s more of a clear glass bowl really, not nearly as fancy as hers was, but it’s proven to be every bit as magical.
And—just as the scenes I saw unfold at her desk virtually every day—kids and teachers have dropped in out of nowhere. Mostly for the candy—but sometimes for an ear. Since it’s been a few years since I was here, I know very few of these kids and I’m pretty sure they don’t know me.
“What exactly do you do here?” is a not-uncommon question. I usually reply with, “I used to work here.”
Seems like the easier answer, since they have no clue and don’t care what a superintendent does. But they do know a good piece of candy when they see one.
Some peek in from the door; some wander on in. “Would it be OK if I have a piece of your candy, please?”
“Absolutely! I’m Mr. Valadie, what’s your name? How’s school going?” or “How was your report card?” or “Good luck in the game tonight!”
Some grab one piece; some grab more. I’m not entirely sure what impact all that sugar is having down the hall, but I’m OK with it.
Every now and again teachers will drop in as well. “Can I please have a piece of your chocolate? I need it bad. Or I might kill someone.” And we take a moment to chat about their classes—and some of their kids who are probably hyped up on sugar.
I’ve been there. It’s what Nancy always said. She remains absolutely certain her candy jar saved more than a couple of young student lives.
And as you might guess, free candy brings in a few regular customers. “Mr. Valadie, you gotta help me, I’m not doing that well in econ,” a young lady pleaded as she reached for some energy and pulled up a chair. “Can I hang out in here next period?”
“Absolutely not. But tell me, what’s the problem?”
“I bombed that last quiz bad.”
“Did you study?” (This was beginning to sound like our home back in the day.)
“Well, here’s the thing …” and I just laughed.
“OK, have you talked to the teacher?”
“I love that woman, I do, but she takes this stuff seriously.”
“I hope so, that’s why she got hired. Did you go to her tutoring sessions?”
“Well, here’s the thing …”
I was sensing a pattern.
I wish I could tell you how many of these casual sorts of chats happen in a given day across our Catholic schools. Some end in laughter; some are shared through tears. And they don’t always—in fact hardly ever—involve candy.
And not just in the random guy’s office on the three-way corner, but with teachers and counselors, priests and Sisters, cooks and janitors, security guards and secretaries. Each and every one offering their time and a listening ear whenever a student has need.
Kids will tell you anything—if they know you care.
If I have a favorite thing about Catholic schools—this might well be it. Everyone can find someone. And everyone can be that someone.
“Look, you probably need to go wherever you’re supposed to be and do some work. Have you figured out how you’re going to explain this?”
“Explain what?”
“How you’ll explain to your folks that you’re not going to graduate. You know this is a required class, right? Either that or go talk to your teacher.
“And here, you’re gonna need some more candy.”
Dear God—Please bless all of us in need. May we find a human ear—and never forget you have one, too. Amen.
George Valadie is a parishioner at St. Stephen Church in Chattanooga and author of the book “We Lost Our Fifth Fork … and other moments when we need some perspective.”