by Diane Johnson-McGrew
The St. Joseph Lab School was a happy place for me during the 1972-73 school year. I was in sixth grade and looking forward to graduation. Times were changing in the early ’70s. It was only one year earlier that girls were allowed to wear pants at the Lab School. Those years also marked the beginning of the end of nuns as the primary teachers at the Lab School. One by one, the nuns were replaced by lay people. My teacher, Mr. Westerhaus, was one of the first.
I started sixth grade as a 10 year old. Our second-story classroom was located on the southeast corner of the school. The only windows in our classroom faced east, toward the church. One cold and particularly blue and clear winter morning, Mr. Westerhaus instructed us to stand near the windows. He was ready to start some music, and he requested we be silent and reflective while watching the sun rise over the church.
The class became silent, and the music, Cat Stevens’ Morning has Broken, began. It was sure to be a special moment for both class and teacher. We would experience the wonder and beauty of the rising sun. Unfortunately, the moment didn’t last long. I started giggling and soon the entire class became distracted, some joining me in my antics. I was duly reprimanded and sent to the principal’s office.
I hadn’t thought about that day until recently when I came across our sixth-grade class picture. I admit, I smiled to myself. At the same time, I felt a wave of regret. Not due to my antics that day; they were pretty mild. Something else bothered me.
I can’t say for sure what Mr. Westerhaus was thinking. It is possible he eagerly anticipated that morning. He may have planned it carefully, possibly waiting for the right weather. He may have been hoping for a meaningful, bonding moment with his sixth-grade class, knowing it was our last year at the Lab School. Or, maybe that incident meant absolutely nothing special to him and he wouldn’t remember it. I will never know, and that is what niggles at my conscience.
I don’t know what became of Mr. Westerhaus. Time has marched on and until that picture resurfaced, I hadn’t thought much about that day. But, if I would happen to see Mr. Westerhaus now (44 years later), I would tell him that no matter what, he deserved his moment, and I am sorry if I ruined his special day. Hopefully, we would both share a laugh. It may be too late to say I’m sorry, but it’s not too late to feel my regrets.
