To the Teacher Who Changed My Life 感恩吾師

Neal Tonken taught me English in 10th grade. He changed my life. He died last week. I don’t remember what he taught me about how to start an essay， but that’s the way he would have started it.

He was clear and direct in his writing. Our first day of class in 1984 was his first day too. He’d been a lawyer and chucked1） it all to teach. He brought a bag of bread， a jar of peanut butter， and a jar of jelly. He asked us to describe how to make a sandwich. Then he read our instructions out loud， following along literally， placing the jar on top of the bag of bread. We’d forgotten basic elements like removing the bread from the bag or taking the lids2） off the jars.

“Dear John， How nice to hear from you，” starts a letter he wrote me in 1991. “Don’t choose law.” Direct. Clear. My letter that prompted his response was the opposite. It was a mess of perfumery and words stacked on top of each other. If it had been an email， it would have triggered his spam filter3）. I’d just gotten my first job as a secretary and mentioned in passing4） I might try to either write or go to law school. His response was advice but also an example.

I’d written that letter to thank him. I learned later that lots of students had done the same. “My interest in literature and learning started in your class，” I wrote. I can’t remember much from high school—too many sports concussions5）， maybe—but I can remember when that interest in learning arrived. After Mr. Tonken died， I thought maybe I’d imagined it， so I excavated6） the 30-year-old copy of Pride and Prejudice from my shelf and looked at my notes inside.

I wandered lonely as a cloud7） in 10th grade. I wrote computer programs and played computer games and sports. My report cards from that period show that I glided8） along with only the mildest interruptions from applied effort. “John： Who are you？ Where were you？” read the remarks next to the “unsatisfactory” grade I received from my upper school work program9）. Teachers did not react well to my posture10）. In middle school a math teacher responded to my good-faith effort at an answer by scoffing11）： “That’s like me asking you what color the blackboard is and you responding， ‘Fast.’”

The pages of Pride and Prejudice don’t look like they belong to the same kid. They are heavily underlined in red pen. There is writing in the margins. Mr. Tonken had made literature an adventure， throwing open trapdoors12） in the text in class to help us understand what was really going on. Actually， mostly he pressed us to do that for ourselves. This was not a class in which information was ladled over you. He expected you to go get it. He once asked who had read a poem we’d been assigned more than once. When no one in class raised her hand， he kicked us all out and told us not to come back until we’d read it at least twice.

He made you want to figure out what was happening in those books so that you could get as excited as he did， but you also wanted to see his reaction when you’d figured something out.

I wasn’t quite sure how to do this. Stories were just a series of events to me. But reading that Penguin edition of Pride and Prejudice in my third-floor bedroom， I finally figured it out. There was a lot going on behind all the walking in and out of drawing rooms. I got so excited， I read the 38-page introduction， which we had not been assigned.

In class on Monday， I was ready to deploy my revelations. The conversation started， and all the usual smart people spoke up. I didn’t quite know how to contribute—I did jokes and mumbling， not genuine observations. I wished to say something very sensible， but knew not how. And time was passing. When talk turned to blushing13）， I seized my opening14）. While reading the introduction I had underlined this passage： “It is perhaps not entirely irrelevant to note that Norman O Brown， following Freud， suggests that blushing is a sort of mild erection of the head.” I laid this knowledge on the class.

Mr. Tonken looked at me like I had just spoken in Swahili15）. Was it that I had spoken at all？ Or was it that I had chosen this particular piece of knowledge to make my first sortie16）？ It didn’t matter. He was delighted to have another person in the conversation. I never left. His handwriting was the first other than my parents’ that I could recognize， because he wrote on my papers with such attention and care. He noticed that I somehow had come alive and wanted to make sure that flame didn’t go out. Thirty years later， it hasn’t.

But that was not Mr. Tonken’s greatest skill. A year or so ago in a conversation about my kids， he said， “Every student should have an adult they can tell their shit to.” That’s the role he played in the two years after I had left his 10th-grade class. He was an ally， a co-conspirator， and the conversations were wide-ranging.

Most of all he testified17） to the messiness of life. In high school a lot of people are trying to fix you and improve you and elevate you. Neal Tonken listened and affirmed that things were confusing. Because he loved passionately， spoke loudly （and occasionally out of turn）， and found life overwhelming in both beauty and frustration， he understood what you were saying. What I was saying.

He had high standards and expected us to meet them. But we wanted to. He did not have much time for BS. In the tributes after his death， classmates remembered his comments when they tried to sneak something by him. Dan Manatt， now a documentarian， tried to loaf by18） with a paper on The Great Gatsby that used a lot of fancy words to cover up that he was winging it. “There’s much less here than meets the eye19），” wrote Mr. Tonken. Sam Thomas， now a novelist， did the same thing on a paper. “This is pure fluff20）. If it weren’t well written it would be an F. D.”

After I moved back to Washington， Neal and I became friends. We celebrated his marriage and his 50th birthday. He talked about his wife， Jancy， as glowingly as I had my crushes in high school， only his lasted a lot longer. He railed against21） one thing and another and he praised his current students for all the doors they were opening for him to the wonder and joy in the world.

Every time I saw Neal， I wanted to thank him. I often did. As I held his hand in the hospice bed a couple of weeks ago， I didn’t restrain the impulse until I thought he might wake up and tell me to knock it off22）. On my last visit， I was there with my friend Julia， who had been in that 10th-grade class and had a similar bond with Neal. Our senior year the two of us had taken him out to lunch to say thanks. Time telescoped23） very quickly in that room with just the three of us. He could only say our names. We sat on his hospital bed and couldn’t say much more. I was shaken and sad and felt vanishingly small—like in high school. I could have used someone to tell my shit to.

Another student， who had graduated almost 20 years after I had， drove straight from Ann Arbor when she heard the news. She brought her Norton Anthology of Poetry. She came into the room to read him letters that were just arriving from students who heard he was ill. A special inbox had been set up， and it was filling rapidly. She read letter after letter from students who weren’t just recalling events from his class but how he had changed their lives too. The room filled up with grateful souls.

That was Neal’s last lesson. That example. To let us see life in that rich tally24）—an accumulation of gratitude deserved and expressed. I got a chance to thank Neal， and it makes me think of other teachers to whom I am grateful. I carry with me what they have given by their instruction and their example. Perhaps you have teachers like that in your life. Write them. Be clear and direct. Tell them “thank you.”

尼爾·湯肯是我十年級的英語老師。他改變了我的人生。上周他去世了（編注：英文原文發表于2015年1月19日）。我不記得他是如何教我落筆寫文章的，但是如果由他來寫這篇文章，就會這樣開頭。

他寫文章清晰明了，直奔主題。1984年，我們上課的第一天也是他任教的第一天。他曾經是律師，之后辭職，改行教書。他把一袋面包、一瓶花生醬和一罐果醬帶到課堂上，讓我們描述如何制作三明治。然后，他一邊大聲念出我們寫的說明，一邊完全照著做，把罐子放在面包袋上。原來，我們忘了一些基本的步驟，比如從袋子里取出面包，或打開瓶蓋。

“親愛的約翰，很高興收到你的來信，”他在1991年寫給我的一封信這樣開頭， “不要選擇法律。”直奔主題。清晰明了。這是他寫給我的回信，我此前的去信風格剛好與之截然相反，言辭華麗，辭藻堆砌，亂七八糟。如果那是封電子郵件，應該就會被他的垃圾郵件過濾器攔下。我當時剛找到第一份工作，當一名秘書，我在信中順便提及我也許會嘗試寫作或是去上法學院。他的回信既是建議，也是一個范本。

我寫那封信是為了向他道謝。后來我才知道很多學生都做過同樣的事。“我對文學和學習的興趣始于您的課堂。”我寫道。我對中學時代的記憶不多—也許是因為運動造成了太多次的腦震蕩—但是我記得我的學習興趣是何時萌生的。湯肯老師去世后，我覺得這也許是自己想象出來的，于是我從書架上找出那本有著30年歷史的《傲慢與偏見》，翻看我在里面寫的筆記。

十年級時，我像一朵云，孤獨地漫游。我寫電腦程序，打電腦游戲，參加體育運動。那個時期的成績單表明，我日子過得輕松自在，基本上不怎么下力氣學習。“約翰：你是誰？你之前都干嗎了？”我的高年級實踐課的成績是“不合格”，成績旁邊寫著這樣一句評語。老師們對我的態度反應不佳。初中時，一位數學老師對我真心付出努力得出的答案嘲諷道：“這就像是我問你黑板是什么顏色，而你卻回答說‘很快’。”

《傲慢與偏見》的書頁看起來不像是屬于那樣的一個孩子。書中的文字下面用紅筆畫了很多線。頁邊的空白處還寫了字。湯肯老師將文學變成了一場探險，他會在課上一把推開理解作品文本的大門，幫我們了解書中寫的究竟是什么。實際上，絕大多數時候他是在敦促我們自己做這件事。他的課不會把知識“盛”到你面前，他希望你自己去尋找答案。有一次，他問有誰讀過那首他曾不止一次布置我們閱讀的詩。班上沒有一個人舉手，于是他把我們都趕出了教室，并且告訴我們，至少把那首詩讀兩遍，否則就不要回來。

他使你想要弄明白那些書里都講了什么，好讓你也能夠像他一樣興奮，但當你有所領悟時，你也想看看他會有什么反應。

我不大清楚如何能做到這一點。在我看來，故事不過是一系列事件而已。但是，當我在三樓的臥室里讀那本企鵝出版社出版的《傲慢與偏見》時，我終于有所領悟。人們在客廳進進出出的背后其實大有文章。我興奮極了，并把長達38頁的序言也讀了，而那并不是布置給我們的作業。

周一的課堂上，我準備好展示我的新發現。討論開始了，平時的那些聰明學生都發言了。我不大知道該如何發表意見—我會講笑話或是小聲嘀咕幾句，卻沒發表過真正的評論意見。我希望能說些很有見地的話，卻不知該怎么說。時間一點點過去。當話題轉到“臉紅”時，我抓住了發言的機會。讀序言時，我在這段話下面劃了線：“諾曼·O·布朗根據弗洛伊德的學說認為，臉紅是腦袋的某種輕微勃起。強調這一說法或許并非毫無意義。”我把這番見解告訴了全班。

湯肯老師看著我，吃驚得好像我剛才說的是斯瓦希里語。是因為我居然在課堂上發言了嗎？還是因為我挑了這則不尋常的知識作為課堂發言的第一次突破？這不重要。他很高興又多了一個學生參與討論。我再未退出過討論。除了我父母的筆跡之外，他的筆跡是第一個我能夠認得出來的，因為他在我作業上的評語寫得如此用心與仔細。他察覺到不知何故我變得活躍起來，并想確保我的這份熱情不會熄滅。30年過去了，這份熱情還在。

但那還不是湯肯老師最大的本事。大約在一年前，在談到我的孩子們時，他說：“每個學生都應該有一個可以聽他們傾訴那些狗屁煩心事的大人。”在我離開他的十年級課堂后的兩年里，他擔當的正是這樣一個角色。他是我的盟友與同謀，我們無所不談。

最重要的是，他見證了人生的混亂復雜。高中時，有許多人試圖改造你，提升你，讓你上一個臺階。尼爾·湯肯則用心傾聽，明確表示世事的確令人困惑。因為他愛得熱烈，言辭激烈（偶爾也會魯莽），認為人生既格外美好又充滿挫折，所以他懂得你在說些什么。他懂得我在說些什么。

他的標準很高，并期望我們能夠達到他的標準。而我們也想達到他的標準。他對于廢話沒有什么耐心。在他去世后為他獻上的致辭中，同學們回憶了當他們想在他面前耍滑頭時他寫的評語。如今已經成為一名紀錄片導演的丹·馬納特當初寫《了不起的蓋茨比》的論文時想蒙混過關，在文中用了許多華麗詞藻，以掩飾這篇文章是他臨時拼湊的。“表面熱鬧，實則毫無意義。”湯肯老師寫道。山姆·托馬斯如今已是一名小說家，他在寫論文時也干過這樣的事。湯肯老師的評語為：“廢話連篇。如果不是因為寫得好，我會給你不及格。”

在我搬回華盛頓后，我和尼爾成了朋友。我們一起慶祝他的婚姻和他50歲的生日。在談到他的太太詹茜時，他容光煥發，如同我在高中談論暗戀對象一樣，只是他的愛戀要持久得多。他抨擊這樣那樣的事情，又稱贊他現在的學生們為他打開了通往世間神奇和喜悅的一扇扇大門。

每次見到尼爾，我都想感謝他。我也常常這么做。幾周前，當我在臨終關懷醫院握著病榻上的他的手時，我沒有壓抑這股沖動，直到我覺得他可能會醒過來叫我別再說了才作罷。最后一次去探望他時，我和朋友朱莉婭一起去的。她十年級時也在我們這個班，與尼爾也有著相似的深厚情誼。高中的最后一年，我們倆曾經請他出去吃午餐，向他道謝。病房里只有我們三個人，時間仿佛一瞬間縮短了。他只能叫出我們的名字。我們坐在他的病床上，也說不出更多的話。我心煩意亂，傷心難過，感覺自己渺小得好像不存在一般—就像在高中時一樣。當時我真該找個人來傾訴煩惱。

還有一位比我低了近20屆的學生，在聽到尼爾病重的消息后，直接從安阿伯驅車趕來。她帶來了她的《諾頓詩歌選》。她來到病房，給他念獲悉他生病消息的學生們剛剛發來的信。他們設置了一個專門的收件箱，這個信箱很快就裝滿了信。她一封一封地讀著學生們的來信，他們在信中不僅回憶了在尼爾課堂上發生的故事，還回顧了他如何改變了他們的人生。病房里充滿了感激之情。

那是尼爾的最后一課。他給我們樹立了榜樣。他讓我們看到了一個如此高分值的人生—這里的分數由表達出來且受之無愧的感激之情聚集而成。我得到了向尼爾道謝的機會，這令我想到我心懷感激的其他老師。我一直銘記著他們通過言傳身教教給我的東西。或許你的人生中也有這樣的老師。給他們寫封信吧，清晰明了，直奔主題，對他們說：“謝謝您！”

3.spam filter：垃圾郵件過濾器

4.in passing：順便，附帶地

5.concussion [k?n?k??（?）n] n. 腦震蕩

6.excavate [?eksk?ve?t] vt. 發掘，挖出

7.I wandered lonely as a cloud：此處引用了英國湖畔派詩人威廉·華茲華斯（1770～1850）一首詩歌的標題。

8.glide [ɡla?d] vi. 輕松行進

9.upper school work program：高年級實踐課，為10～12年級學生開設，要求學生就某個主題進行深入研究的課程。

10.posture [?p?st??（r）] n. 態度，立場

11.scoff [sk?f] vi. 嘲笑，譏諷，嘲弄

12.trapdoor [?tr?p?d??（r）] n. （房頂的）活動天窗；（地板的）活板門

13.blushing [bl????] n. （因尷尬、生氣或羞愧而）臉紅

14.opening [???p（?）n??] n. （某人說話或做事的）良機，機會

15.Swahili [swɑ??hi?li] n. 斯瓦希里語

16.sortie [?s??（r）ti] n. （做某事的）嘗試

17.testify [?test?fa?] vi. 為……作證明

18.loaf by：虛度光陰

19.much less than meets the eye：某物比表面看到的更加無意義，比想象中更加簡單

20.fluff [fl?f] n. 意義不大的新聞（音樂、文章、工作等）

21.rail against：抱怨，怒斥

22.knock it off：（因受干擾而叫某人）停下來

23.telescope [?tel??sk??p] vi. 縮短

24.tally [?t?li] n. 計數，得分