Chapter 7: Daufuskie

Sometimes I read for pleasure, but mostly I read because I want to be better. Clearer about who I am and how I want to live.

When I was 19, I read The Water Is Wide, Pat Conroy’s memoir about teaching the descendants of slaves on Daufuskie Island, South Carolina. (Daufuskie in Muscogee — the island’s first inhabitants — means “sharp feather,” because that’s the island’s shape.)

It didn’t happen for another decade, but I became a teacher partly because I read that book. I wanted to be a teacher like Pat — fun, creative, practical, irreverent, and compassionate.

Halfway through my career, I got the chance to meet him at a bookstore near Stanford. “Pat, I need you to know that I became a teacher because of you.”

“You became a teacher because of me? And you don’t hate me?”

His sense of humor was another thing I tried to incorporate into my class. He showed me that I could be myself, not some cardboard cutout version of what others think a teacher should be.

Pat’s why I’d playfully wrestle the boys and why, once, I stopped a lesson and marched my entire 7th grade English class to the gym so I could prove to a cocky kid that, yes, I could whip him in a one-on-one basketball game.

I didn’t miss a shot and won 10—0.

Glory days.

Not really. He was 13, and I was a grown man. But it was all in fun. Even my overconfident, vanquished foe returned to class laughing about it, and the connection between him and me deepened. 

I remember a colleague joking with me about it and me telling him that I had to do it while I still could. I knew that a decade later that kind of stunt wouldn’t be possible.

Yet, even as my physicality waned, I continued to try anything that could keep kids’ attention and prevent them from thinking school was boring and irrelevant. I hung a boxing heavy bag and a speed bag in the back of the classroom so students could take out frustrations by pounding the former and learn that “you’ve got to be bad before you can be good” by mastering the latter.

That kind of thinking, those kind of ideas, came from Pat.

“My theory of teaching held several sacred tenants, among these being that the teacher must always maintain an air of insanity, or of eccentricity out of control, if he is to catch and hold the attention of his students. The teacher must always be on the attack, looking for new ideas, changing worn-out tactics, and never, ever falling into worn out patterns that lead to student ennui.

“I concentrated on variety as the primary method. Sweet talk, Shakespearean monologues, Marine Corps brutality, prayers—anything that could possibly inflame the imagination, even momentarily, of someone imprisoned in my classroom all day.”

—    (From The Water Is Wide, p.56)

Pat died on March 4, 2016, but his words and actions still guide me.

__________

I didn’t have a lot of must-see places on my trip, but Daufuskie was nonnegotiable. If I had had to swim there from Bluffton, SC, I would have.

Apart from simply experiencing the island that Pat captivatingly described, I wasn’t certain of what I’d do when I got there. Like so much of the trip, my itinerary was written in sand, not stone.

I wanted to see the school where he taught and plunge into the Atlantic at the spot where he sought refuge from mosquitoes and stress. But then, the day before Daufuskie, I visited the Pat Conroy Literary Center in Beaufort. A docent shared with me that one of “Conrack’s” students from The Water is Wide now sang in the First Union African Baptist Church choir on Daufuskie.

When the ferry landed, I rented a golf cart (the island’s primary way to get around), studied the map, and headed toward First Union. Sunday service had begun at 11:00, and it was almost noon.

When I got there, I thought I was too late. Church was over and only a couple of touristy-looking people were still lingering. Then a man (whom I would later learn was Pastor Aaron) walked toward me.

“Can I help you?”

I explained who I was and why I was there.

“Yes, Sallie Ann Robinson was Pat Conroy’s student. She was here this morning but left a little while ago,” he said.

“Is there any way you can put me in touch with her?”

He was willing to share her contact info, but that wouldn’t do. I have AT&T, but only Verizon worked on the island. Besides, I had to see Sallie Ann that day.

“Well, if you’re not afraid to be bold, she lives down this street, about three-quarters a mile from here. You could go there.”

Five minutes later, as I neared her house, a woman driving a van pulled up next to me. It was Sallie Ann.

Again, I explained who I was and why I was there. “Would you be willing to talk with me?”

Sallie (surprisingly) gave me a big hug and invited me into her home. For the next two hours we shared our lives.

As with Tiffany in Texas, I was intrigued (and awed) by how, despite adversity and hardship, Sally is living so meaningfully. The 11-year-old from The Water is Wide grew up, moved to Philadelphia, trained to be a nurse, and eventually made her way back to Daufuskie. She gives island tours, began a GoFundMe campaign to save her historical childhood home, and is active in First Union.

Like Tiffany, Sallie had a teacher (Pat) who helped. I know there’s a lot more to it than that, but every time I hear a story about a teacher positively contributing to a student’s life, it’s validating.

Similar to loving parents wanting their children to live joyful and fulfilling lives, the best teachers want that for their students. When it happens, it’s the best feeling. I bet Sallie’s life made Pat happy.

__________

During the drive, I thought often about religion and faith. I want to believe. I hope there’s something cool beyond this life. But I can’t say I believe there is. I was raised Catholic, but I don’t practice it. I don’t practice anything. But I wonder a lot. And my mind is open.

Stuff happened on my expedition that seemed more providential than coincidental. (More about that is coming in a later chapter.) Connecting with Sallie (“Ethel” in my favorite book) seemed miraculous. Sitting in her living room, talking with her about Pat was surreal. She told me he was the best teacher. That he was as cool as I imagined he was. (Which was comforting. What if she had said, “Truth is, Pat Conroy was a jerk!”?)

Before I said goodbye, I asked Sallie Ann, the student of my mentor teacher, if she would share a vital lesson.

She did:

If nothing else good had happened during my 16,337-mile drive, meeting Sallie and listening to her talk about Pat would have stilll been enough to make the trip worth it.

Lessons from Daufuskie

* That place you’re drawn to? Go! There’s a reason it’s calling you.

* Listen to the stories of people who, in spite of adversity and hardships, are living meaningful and fulfilling lives. Learn from them.