You never know what someone else is going through, so be kind, always The post How You Treat People Matters appeared first on .
My junior year of high school, I took a computer programming class. I wasn’t particularly interested in coding; I was interested in stockpiling college credits. My guidance counselor knew this and recommended the course when we planned my schedule the previous semester.
Two buddies, Adam and Dan, had the same idea. (Although, if memory serves, Adam might’ve actually liked coding—but it’s been so long, I can’t say for sure.) The three of us enrolled together. We already knew the teacher, Mr. Matherson, from Course III Math. I think he realized immediately that we weren’t excited about the class, but we were good students, and he knew we could handle the work. He didn’t give us too hard a time.
The roster was mostly seniors—many of them planning to study computer science in college. Adam, Dan, and I weren’t wildly popular, but we played sports and were friendly with most of the popular kids. That gave us an unreasonable amount of confidence—borderline cockiness.
Eric and Jonathan were two seniors in the class. Jonathan was the older brother of Emily, a junior who ran in the same circles we did. She was on the track team, cute, and someone we’d bump into at out-of-school events. Jonathan, though, was nothing like Emily. He was the stereotypical nerd from a John Hughes movie: a big guy, lots of acne, into Dungeons & Dragons, with an awkward laugh that made far too many appearances. His friend Eric fit a similar description—very tall, long greasy black hair (think Snape before Snape).
Because programming was new to most of us, the class was full of questions and whole-group conversations. Mr. Matherson ran a loose classroom, so jokes, sarcasm, and general tomfoolery were common. Inevitably, Jonathan’s goofy laugh would bubble up again and again. And being the jerks we were, Adam, Dan, and I would mimic it—except louder, goofier, and more obnoxious.
We escalated things with jokes about dragon masters, dexterity scores, and mock-questions tacked onto the end of our laugh impressions. We weren’t full-on Johnny Lawrence, but what we were doing was unkind—and it was relentless.
I didn’t ace the class, but I finished with a high enough grade to pocket another three college credits. I’d see Eric and Jonathan around school here and there, but outside of that class, I didn’t go out of my way to bother them. A few months later, they graduated.
Senior year felt like everything was lining up. I was applying early decision to the college I wanted. I was dating the girl I’d been trying to date for more than a year. I was chasing a couple of track records.
I don’t remember how I found out or where I was when I heard the news: a couple months into his freshman year of college, Jonathan killed himself.
Most high schoolers are self-centered—we all lean that way. Compared to my peers, I thought I was a little more sensitive, kinder, more empathetic. But I don’t recall having a strong reaction when I first heard about Jonathan.
The wake, though—I remember that vividly.
The funeral home was a small building on Main Street. I remember the size because the line stretched out the front door and down the sidewalk. When you’re young, I don’t think you truly understand death; at least, I didn’t. I don’t know if I went to support Emily and her parents, or because it felt like what everyone else was doing—an awful thought, but possibly the truth.
As I made my way toward the front of the line, I saw them in order: first Emily, then her mom, then her dad. I knew her parents from track meets. I was good with parents; they’d always been friendly with me. I didn’t say anything to Emily or her mother—just hugged them both and moved on.
But when I reached Jonathan’s dad, everything shifted.
He grabbed me by both shoulders and looked me straight in the eyes. I’ll never forget that he wasn’t sad or angry or bitter. He was apologetic. He said, “You shouldn’t have to be here.” Like he felt bad that I had to face something so heavy when I should have been out having fun.
That moment destroys me every time I think about it. I still see his face. I still hear his words. And I know now that he was wrong.
I did need to be there.
I had been unkind to Jonathan.
I had contributed to his pain.
Maybe even to his death.
It matters how you treat people.
The post How You Treat People Matters appeared first on .
