On being ... touched

By Ingrid Sapona

I read two F. Scott Fitzgerald short stories this week. Why? Because my 8th grade social studies teacher (I’ll call him Mr. P) talked about a quote from a Fitzgerald short story that inspired him. (I couldn’t remember the exact title, so looking for the quote I ended up reading a couple stories.) The quote came up in a Zoom call that one of my classmates set up in honour of Mr. P’s 80th birthday. 

I’ve kept in touch with a few of my high school classmates on a one-on-one basis. Recently I emailed three of them asking for their thoughts on something and someone suggested we do a Zoom call to discuss it. During that call we started reminiscing about teachers and classmates we’ve lost touch with these (gasp) 45+ years. Turns out each of us had particularly fond memories of Mr. P and of a play we wrote in that class.

The classmate who set up the Zoom decided to look up Mr. P. She found his email address and contacted him. When she learned his birthday was coming up, she asked him if he’d be ok if she set up a Zoom call for his birthday. He was delighted and so she set it up, inviting 10 of us who remembered Mr. P’s class and the play.

The call started out as you’d expect when you run into folks you’ve not seen for years. Mr. P was interested in hearing what we went on to do with our lives. Of course, there was some ribbing about various professions, though we’ve all had successful careers. And, as happens at all reunions, there was some gossip about the school and our classmates.

The conversation soon turned to what Mr. P meant to us. Some reflected very specifically on the impact the class had on their life. One, for example, who has done some acting and theatre work, said our little 8th grade play sparked her life-long interest in acting. Another admitted she too felt the acting bug as a result of the play, but her parents persuaded her not to pursue it. She had no regrets about her career choice, however, because she found a way to put acting skills to use in her professional life. A lovely realization, I’d say.

One woman asked Mr. P — quite earnestly — whether we spent the entire year working on the play, as that was her recollection. Mr. P laughed and assured us the play wasn’t the only thing we did that year — it was simply the culmination of a unit about the Gilded Age. Though embarrassed that her memory of the class was rather skewed, she said Mr. P’s class was the first time she felt smart and good about herself. Not a bad legacy…

As for me, my fondness for the class is demonstrated by the fact that the play is one of the few things from high school that I kept a copy of. Not only that, a few years ago I scanned it for posterity. Beyond that, what I admired about Mr. P was his creativity and enthusiasm. What I didn’t realize until I reflected on that call the past few days was the most powerful thing I took away from Mr. P: the belief that if you share yourself and your interests genuinely, it’s possible to spark others’ desire to learn and think.

Toward the end of the call Mr. P reflected a bit on his approach to teaching — and to life. He kind of summed it up saying that he was always guided by a quote from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short story, The Favorite Boy. Then, with all the charm and panache he mesmerized us with so many years ago, he recited — from memory — this quote:

“It isn’t given to us to know those rare moments when people are wide open and the lightest touch can wither or heal. A moment too late and we can never reach them any more in this world…”.

I suspect my classmates on last week’s call would agree that we were wide open in 8th grade and very lucky to have had Mr. P, as his light touch inspired our learning and our lives.

©️2025 Ingrid Sapona