THE SHADOW: Episode 1

So, my first day of shadowing a veteran ski instructor, which happened about a month ago, was one of the most personally and professionally gratifying experiences of my life. I'm not exaggerating.

When I met the instructor (whom I'll call "Mary") before the class, she brought me up to speed: "What we're going to have today is Day 2 of local elementary kids." (The company treats local underprivileged kids to two days of free ski lessons every year. She'd had this same group of six Level One fifth-graders the day before; this was her second day.) "Just so you know, I had one boy who was trouble all day yesterday. He was disrespectful, didn't follow rules--I'd tell him to ski down to a certain spot, and he'd go past it--he was fighting with another boy, punching him. At the end of the day, I told him and his bus driver that he had two chances today. If he blows it, he's going down to the base and he'll sit inside by himself. I can't have him disrupting the class like this and ruining everyone else's time."

When I met the kids (who, by the way, were adorable in their mismatched thrift store gear, their friendly enthusiasm, and their lack of self-consciousness), it was easy to see who the troublemaker was. When Mary started with "Today, kids, we're going to head right up the gondola and start our fun at the top of the hill," Juan (not his real name) said, loudly, "Fun for you, maybe, but not fun for us. You just tell us what we have to do, it's not fun." The instructor looked at him and said, firmly, "Juan, we talked about this yesterday, remember? If you keep being disrespectful and negative, I'm going to have to remove you from the class. You have two chances and you just used up one." Then she turned around to lead them to the gondola, and when she did, I saw Juan punch Manuel (also not his real name, I'm not using any real names, okay?) on the shoulder. I thought, "Man, it's going to be a short day for Juan if things don't change soon."

We rode the gondola up and Mary chatted amiably about what the kids had learned yesterday, what they would build on today. I had my eye on Smoldering Juan. I decided to try to be a useful shadow.

After we got to the top, the kids put on their skis and, single file, followed Mary, who was at the head of the line, to the bottom of the run. Juan was last in line, and I was behind him. "Hey, Juan," I said, "nice turns." I said this because it was true, he had really nice form, and also because, in my long history of interacting with high-maintenance misbehaving kids, I've witnessed the redirecting power of honest positive feedback. He turned to look at me and smiled brightly, "Thanks!" he said.

Here, I'd like to fully disclose that my hopeful intention was to somewhat mitigate his aggression and hostility. I thought that, maybe, with a little positive attention unrelated to his previous behavior, he might relax a little bit, shift focus, tone it down, and have fun. I had zero expectations for what actually happened.

"I'm not kidding," I said. "Those are really nice parallel turns you're doing. How many times have you skied?"

"It's my second day," he said.

"Ever?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said.

"Wow, that's amazing!" I said, not blowing smoke. He looked so comfortable on his skis. "Do you play other sports?" (We are slowly skiing in a line down the hill as we talk, and he's turning around to answer me and smiling shyly every time.)

"Yeah, soccer and baseball."

"Oh, well, that explains it. You're an athlete, so this comes naturally to you."

(Skiing in silence for a few beats.)

"So, Juan, what's your favorite sport?"

"Skiing."

(My heart kind of breaking.)

"That's wonderful. It's mine too. And you're so naturally good at it! It took me a LOT longer to get as good as you are after just two days."

One of the girls in our group fell down. Juan goes over to her and says, "Here, let me help you up," extends his hand. (Mary shouts from below, "Thanks, Juan, but let her try to do it herself. She needs to learn how!")

Juan steps back. "That was very nice of you to offer to help," I say.

Next ride up the gondola is convivial, we're telling jokes and coming up with nicknames for each other. At the top, while Juan is putting on his skis, he looks at me and says, "You're a really nice person."

Again, I was expecting--no, not even expecting: hoping for--a subtle change in Juan's behavior, nothing more. His direct and transparent gratitude took me completely by surprise.

"Well, thanks so much for saying that, Juan," I said. "You are, too!"

He looked surprised. "You think I'm nice?"

"I know you are!" I said. "We had a nice chat on the way down, I watched you offer to help Cynthia up when she fell. Sometimes people only see one side of us, and they think that's all we are. And that makes us feel bad and even act bad. But I see the real side of you and I know you're a smart and nice kid."

He stood there for a moment and then said, "You really get me."

(Again, heart kind of breaking.)

Mary shouted up from the lead of the line, "Juan, it's your turn to be the leader! Come on up front!" (The kids rotate who's at the head of the line skiing down, so everyone gets a turn being first and last.)

"That's okay, Mary. If it's okay, I'd like to be last again so I can ski with Granny!"

"Fine!" she said.

Juan winked at me and smiled.

As we were skiing down the second time, we chatted about school and food and things we both liked. Another group of kids from the same elementary school, with a different instructor, skied by. "HI JUAN!!" about four smitten girls called out in sing-song. The picture became clearer: what we have here is a 21st century, ten-year-old James Dean.

"Looks like you're pretty popular with the ladies," I teased.

He smiled and winked at me again. Hilarious.

At lunch, we sang "I'm All About That Bass" and had a dance contest, which I won. The kids said I didn't win because they didn't vote for me, and also because it wasn't a contest, but I reminded them that when one person is so completely awesome and so obviously the winner, contests and votes are unfair to everyone else, and also, not necessary.

Manuel The Punching Bag came up to me to speak to me privately. "Juan has anger management issues," he told me, watching for my reaction through thick glasses. "He can't control his temper sometimes."

"I saw him punch you this morning and you could have told Mary, and he could have been thrown out of the class. But you sucked it up. I heard he was mean to you all day yesterday. Why didn't you tell on him?"

He shrugged.

"Well, kudos to you for not fighting back. It's not fun to be picked on."

"He seems better today," Manuel said.

"Good," I said.

And that's how the rest of the day went. We skied, we had fun. Juan was chivalrous and charming to his classmates and even Mary. On the gondola rides, we told jokes. To add to the conundrum of this whole experience, here's the joke that Juan told:

"A neutron goes into a bar. 'How much are the drinks here?' he asked the bartender. The bartender says, 'For you, no charge.'"

Hugs at the end of the day. Heart full, head swimming.

Don't get me wrong, I have no illusions about what I'm doing here. There is nothing altruistic about teaching an exclusive, expensive, and somewhat ridiculous sport that only a small percentage of the population has access to, let alone can afford. 

But on this day, I was reminded once again there are millions of ways to make a difference in someone else's life. And on this day, Juan made a big difference in mine.