Front of the Class Page 17

  Even though I was concerned about my Tourette’s, thankfully it didn’t seem to be an issue in the interview. The supervisor just asked me questions about what I did. I told her about teaching and the award, and she was impressed enough to hire me for the “character staff” for Turner Field.

  I took the job because I wanted to be Homer, the main mascot for the team. But that wasn’t to be just yet. First, I needed to learn the ropes by spending time inside the costumes of other characters such as Magilla Gorilla, Fred Flintstone, and Yogi Bear. While in costume, I would walk around the plaza area at the stadium, wave to people, and give high fives to the kids. I guess you could say I was the pregame entertainment. I had to be there several hours before game time and I worked until the end of the fifth inning. Then, if I wanted, I could get out of my costume, kick back, and watch the rest of the game.

  In many ways this was the coolest job possible, but it was also the hottest. The character staff would get so warm inside the costumes that we would work for about twenty minutes and then take a break for twenty. I sweated inside those costumes more than I had ever sweated in my life. But I didn’t care. I loved what I was doing, especially when the kids came around. I had a lot of fun with them.

  During breaks I took off the costume and ran for the water bottles in the break room. I always wiped off as much sweat as I could before I sat down, but some days I was just dripping wet. Sometimes I put on a dry shirt. Other days I’d think: why put on a dry shirt when it will be sopping wet in a few minutes?

  The main rule about being in costume was that we were not allowed to talk because it could scare the kids, so my noises could be a problem if I was ticcing badly. But, just as when I teach, I was so active and focused inside a costume that I didn’t make many noises at all. When I was in character, I always chewed gum. That helped me refocus my energy and keep active even if I was just standing there. For me, the hardest part of being a mascot was during the national anthem—I stood there and chewed gum like crazy so I wouldn’t tic. I never wanted some overzealous fan to think I was disrespectful. The worst was when the Braves played a Canadian team. Then I had to keep it together through two anthems!

  Anthems aside, I tried to stay as active as I could when I was in costume. That made it easier for me. If I didn’t have a lot to do, I made noises; if I stayed active, I was quiet. And good mascots are active! Most of the time, my tics just sounded like extra team spirit. Looking back, being a mascot provided the best playable identity I’d had since the old “froggy” days back at Camp Sabra.

  Eventually I worked my way up to Rally, one of the most popular mascots. And at the end of my first season, I finally got to be the main mascot, Homer. I felt like a star. Homer was fun because at Braves baseball games, Homer is the man! He gets to dance and run around and generally act like a nut, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Before the games, Homer gets the fans fired up at a Rockin’ Rally in the plaza. I really liked that part.

  As school started up my fourth year, I decided to stay on with the Braves. My managers were gracious enough to let me work whenever my schedule allowed, so I did it a few days a week. I loved telling people about my part-time job. Friends and students would come to the games and get a big kick out of taking pictures with me dressed as Homer or one of the other characters. How did they know which one I was? I told them I’d make a certain movement as a secret sign. If no one was around, I’d break the cardinal rule and whisper in their ear, “It’s me —Brad.”

  Sometimes I’d see other people I knew, but they didn’t know it was me in the costume. I’d have a great time messing with them before I told them who it was. The look on their faces was a riot.

  Later in the fall I really got a big kick out of the playoff games. Talk about frenzied crowds--it was unbelievable! The noise, the energy, and the competition combined to make it an unforgettable experience.

  This job was also fun because the mascot locker room was between the Braves’ and the visiting team’s locker rooms. Many times I saw players in the tunnels, and I’d get excited about that. Although I couldn’t talk to them--again, mascot rule number one: no talking!—they could talk to me, and they frequently did. I love baseball so much that when a major-league player talks to me—for whatever reason—it is always a thrill.

  I was a regular on the Braves mascot staff for four years, and I still occasionally don the Homer outfit or one of the other costumes for special events. Other than one time when a supervisor who hadn’t been told about my Tourette’s looked strangely at me in a meeting, Tourette syndrome was never a problem. I can’t believe that being a mascot is something organizations pay people to do. I don’t do it for the pay. I do it because it was a dream of mine since I was a little kid. Plus, combining two of the things I love best, baseball and kids, is wonderful. Being paid just makes it all that much better.

  I still loved my teaching responsibilities at Mountain View. My kids filled my cup in more ways than I could count. During my first year of teaching, I had a lively, freckle-faced student named Heather Thomas. She was vivacious and social, always chatting and laughing with her friends. Like myself at her age, she was not a great student. I could see that she tried hard, but it took her longer to grasp new concepts. I got to know Heather very well by working with her one-on-one. I helped her with reading and math by coloring and working on art projects with her. Heather and I would sit at my desk and we’d do addition and subtraction using flashcards. For spelling and writing, Heather would write, and I would listen to her share her story with me. We’d then go back and fix the spelling of words and add punctuation. Slowly but surely, she improved.

  Heather’s parents were divorced, but both her mother and father were very involved in her education. I set up a separate conference with each of them and made sure they both got report cards and knew everything that was going on with Heather at school.

  The following year, I often saw Heather in the hallways, and she always threw her arms around me in a big Heather hug. I followed her progress in school and was thrilled to see her blossom, just as I was thrilled with the progress of all my students.

  But in the fifth grade, Heather got sick. She missed school often, and I eventually heard from her teachers that she was battling cancer. Heather went through some really tough times, but she kept bouncing back. Though she returned to school each time, I could tell she was not well. I kept up with Heather’s progress by checking with her younger sister, Lindsay.

  Mountain View has a very cool tradition known as the Fifth Grade Walk. During the last few minutes of the last day of school, the fifth graders march around the school and say their good-byes. Their teachers and younger schoolmates line the hallways and give them high fives and big waves. Heather tried hard that spring to get well enough so that she, too, could march around the school. On the day of the walk Heather was able to participate, but only because her mother pushed her down the hall in a wheelchair. When they got to my classroom I was waiting for her. Her mother stopped the wheelchair, and Heather gave me one of her wonderful trademark hugs.

  The other fifth-graders went on to middle school, but Heather was really too sick to attend regularly. At Thanksgiving time she came back to Mountain View for a pre-Thanksgiving lunch we have every year. She was eating with her sister, and I saw her as I brought my class down to lunch. I had my camera with me, and asked her mother to take a picture of us. I stooped next to her just as her mother snapped the photo. After developing the film, I sent a copy of the picture home to Heather.

  I am so glad I took that picture during that Thanksgiving lunch because it was the last time I saw Heather alive. She died in January.

  Everyone at Mountain View knew who Heather was, and she had been well liked by all. On the day she died, one of the school counselors came to my class to let me know. The counselor wanted her past teachers to know before the announcement was made to the entire school. I was grateful for that because even though her death had been expected, I was devastated. Naturally, when t
he announcement was made, my students had a lot of questions about Heather and also about death and cancer. I had had a great lesson planned that day, but it was too hard for me, and for my class, to focus. So we spent over an hour talking about cancer and about Heather. I needed that discussion as much as my students did.

  I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go to the funeral because, as a person with Tourette’s, I had not attended many funerals. My barking was sure to be prominent at a stressful time like this, and added to all the grief over the death of a child, it might make my presence too much for everyone. But there would be a wake the evening before the funeral. A few of the other teachers were going, so I decided I could honor Heather in that way, by going to the wake.

  When I arrived, you can imagine all the emotions I was feeling. It was unthinkable that this friendly, energetic young girl did not have the opportunity to live out her life. It was senseless to me. I saw a lot of people there whom I knew, and there was some comfort in having familiar faces around. Many of the mourners were young friends of Heather’s. As difficult as I’m sure it was for them, I was glad to see that they were there. Heather would have liked that.

  I stood as discreetly as possible in the back of the room, talking quietly to a few people. On the other side of the room was Heather, lying in an open coffin. It was at that point I decided I did not want to see her. I was used to closed caskets, which are traditional in the Jewish religion, but I also didn’t want to start ticcing a lot when I went up to the coffin. I thought it would disturb people and distract from the solemnity of the wake.

  Eventually I saw Heather’s mother and father, and both seemed genuinely pleased to see me. I was glad I could bring a smile to their faces, however brief it was. They both came over to hug me, and in the middle of an embrace, Heather’s mother said something totally unexpected.

  “Heather loved being in your class; you were her very favorite teacher,” said Debbie Thomas as she pulled away. “Heather loved going back to school to visit you. I know she knows you are here and she knows you are thinking about her.”

  There was silence for a moment. Then Debbie added, “She was so special. I just don’t want people to forget about her.”

  I consoled Debbie with the thought that her daughter was such a lively, engaging person that she made a good impression on everyone she met. “No one who ever met her could ever forget her,” I said. I meant every word because Heather had truly been a special person.

  At this point it was all I could do not to break down. I knew I needed to be strong. If I started to cry, so would Debbie, and the entire room would follow suit. The moment passed and Debbie asked if I had seen Heather yet.

  As I was saying no, Debbie grabbed my hand and brought me over to the open casket. There was no choice but to follow. When we stopped, we stood directly in front of the casket. I was hesitant to look, but when I did, the peaceful and serene look on Heather’s face made me realize that all her suffering was over.

  When I left a few minutes later, I thought that as hard as it had been for me to attend the wake, it must have been a thousand times harder for Heather’s parents and her family. I knew then that I had to go to the funeral the next day.

  The church was completely packed with Heather’s family, her friends, and her teachers from Mountain View. I also saw many of my former students whom I hadn’t seen in far too long. During the ceremony, I recalled all the great memories I had of Heather. I also thought about what her mother had said the day before, that she didn’t want people to forget Heather. When a person sticks something like that in my head, I think of it as a challenge. I took it very personally when her mother said she didn’t want people to forget about her daughter. As the funeral ended, I knew just what to do.

  I realized I didn’t want people to forget Heather, either. Jim Ovbey had recently left Mountain View, so the next day I asked my new principal if I could start a Relay for Life team at school. Relay for Life is the American Cancer Society’s signature event, raising funds for cancer research and honoring those who have died of or are living with cancer. I had gone to a Relay for Life event the previous year, and I thought this would be a perfect way to remember Heather. My new principal mentioned that there was a Relay for Life meeting coming up the very next week and that I could certainly organize and lead a team from Mountain View. After finding out all that was involved, I rallied the teachers at my school. Forty-five teachers committed not only to raising one hundred dollars each, but also to attending the event in May.

  We developed a seventies theme of “Stayin’ Alive for a Cure,” and I dove into several Relay for Life fundraisers. We had an ice cream social and also an O’Charley’s restaurant night, from which the school got a percentage of the money that came in from meal orders. As an extra incentive for the kids to bring their parents to O’Charley’s that night, the teachers worked as the waiters and waitresses who served the students and their families. It was a lot of fun.

  I had called Heather’s parents and told them what I was doing, and they were thrilled and eagerly contributed in any way they could.

  “Heather just adored Brad. She cried at the end of second grade because she didn’t want to leave him,” said Debbie Thomas. “When Heather got sick, I know it was devastating to Brad, but he jumped in and kept me going at a time when I was weak. Through all that, he has become like family. I still just can’t really believe that there is someone in this world like Brad who has worked so tirelessly to keep Heather’s memory alive.”

  In May, thousands of people came to the Relay for Life. It was a huge success and our school raised more than any other school in Cobb County: $11,500. We also received the award for the best new Relay for Life team. I was so excited about how Mountain View students, parents, and staff had come out to support this event. Heather’s family was overjoyed, because it was all being done in Heather’s memory.

  “Relay for Life is very difficult for me—and for our family—for obvious reasons,” said Heather’s mother. “But along with the difficulty is the joy in knowing it is all being done for Heather, and that Brad has put his whole heart and soul into it. We appreciate him so much.”

  Many parents came over and thanked me for organizing the event. I appreciated their participation and simply told them that we weren’t going to forget Heather. And we won’t.

  The next year I was on the Relay for Life steering committee for school recruitment. My job was to get more elementary schools involved, and I am pleased to say that we doubled the number of schools participating. I now chair Relay for Life for all of Cobb County and am proud that it all helps to carry on the memory of one little girl who made a difference in my life.

  All the effort that I put into Relay for Life is a form of prayer that I can offer for Heather. It is a prayer of labor, of love, and of thanks for having had the chance to know Heather, and for all the joy she brought to her family and schoolmates in her all too brief stay here on earth.

  REPRISE AND SURPRISE

  AFTER I HAD BEEN IN ATLANTA for a few years, I had the opportunity to realize another of my dreams, and that was to start a Tourette Syndrome Adventure Camp, a five-day overnight experience for children with Tourette’s. I would have loved to participate in this kind of camp when I was a kid, and I was just as eager to participate as an adult counselor.

  The camp was held in 1999 and 2000 on the grounds of Inner Harbour, an Atlanta-area residential youth program founded in 1962. Since all the children who were going to attend had their own combination of Tourette-based symptoms, attention deficit disorder, and obsessive-compulsive behavior, it was necessary to properly educate the Inner Harbour staff. A four-hour session was given by a licensed clinical psychologist, who explained to the staff what they might see and hear, and some strategies they could use to help the children succeed.

  Fourteen boys enjoyed their days at camp, and many activities were planned for a very intense schedule. Some of the activities included swimming, horseback riding, arts and crafts,
nature walks, pet therapy, and sporting events. One highlight was a ropes course, as it provided a chance for the kids to work as a group to accomplish predetermined goals. Many of the kids did not know each other prior to attending camp, but activities such as the ropes course helped them bond with one another. I vividly remember how alone I felt with my Tourette’s at their age, and—not that I wish Tourette’s on anyone—I often wished I had a friend with Tourette’s so we could talk about it.

  Throughout the week, we had anger management sessions in which the children were able to discuss how they lived with Tourette syndrome and to share some strategies they used when they got angry. These sessions provided many positive and heartfelt interactions between the campers as they discussed ways to cope with their disability.

  The camp was an overwhelming success, as the campers had a chance to succeed in a nonthreatening environment—an environment in which they were not looked at for their weaknesses, but rather for the unique strengths they each possessed.

  The real upside to Tourette Syndrome Adventure Camp was that the kids all left with more than a camping experience. They left with the realization that there are other children who deal with the same difficulties as they do, and they left knowing that it is possible to succeed. I’d really love at some point to organize a reunion to see how these kids are doing and to renew and extend the friendships they all made at camp.

  Reunions come in various forms, and a different sort of reunion was on my mind one day about three years ago when I had a long-overdue conversation with my dad. I had wanted to have a serious talk with him for a while, but the timing never seemed right. As I got older I realized more and more the importance of family, and I knew I needed to make the effort to improve Dad’s and my relationship. A tragedy in my mother’s life encouraged me to move forward with this.