Acciones, Mas Que Palabras…

Ted and me

Sometimes, if you’re really lucky, you find a friend.You might think you have made all the real friends you’re ever gonna have, and you content yourself with that. And then, unexpectedly, inexplicably, and to your never-ending gratitude, you find a brand new friend, and you know it right away.That’s how it was for me with Ted.I would come towork early in the morning and feel a sense of reassurance that Ted was already there, already humming.He became my Yaqui Indian guru, mentor teacher, and confidante all rolled into one. Ted had a funny way of helping me to believe in myself but not take myself too seriously, either.

I soon found out that others felt the same way about Ted.  He was the special gift of Vista de Las Cruces School. I’m not even sure what his official job title was -- maybe custodian? -- but teacher would have been more accurate. Children learn not by what we say, but by what we do, which means that for many years Ted was quietly teaching our kids about service, about respect, and about love for humanity.  Ted drove a school bus, translated at Spanish-speaking parent conferences, informally counseled and mentored kids in a way no one else could, and kept our campus ship-shape. He turned a plot of sand into a cactus garden. He turned feeling into a song. He turned pain into wisdom. He turned barbecued tri-tip into a work of art.

Even after I left Vista, Ted continued to be my buddy. He would surprise me in my new classroom at Dunn Middle School, often with a king-size apple fritter or a box of donuts for the kids. Ted grew up with music, from church choir to honky tonk, and when I briefly flirted with learning to play the guitar, he brought me an Ernie Ball beginner's book and an enthusiasm I didn't deserve. (I dropped the fantasy very quickly.) Whenever our good friend Mort, the third musketeer, came into town we would meet in Solvang and they would make music and I would wish I could, but it was great fun just to listen. Oneday Ted gave me an old framed photograph of himself with his brothers and theirmusic teacher, a slender lady wearing glasses and a 1950s schoolteacher dress. She beams with pride and all of the boys are grinning and holding their guitars. The picture has a prominent place on a bookshelf in my living room.

I was still teaching at Vista when Ted decided to retire. I realized that we needed to do something special for him and I am pleased to say I led a movement to name the auditorium in his honor. On the night of its dedication, the entire school assembled there along with friends and family of Ted’s from near and far. There was a concert, of course, and a rendition of “Chunk of Coal” which is sort of Ted’s theme song and in truth belongs to all of us who are aspiring to become better versions of ourselves.

I was one of the speakers. “Listenclosely," I proclaimed, "for this room rings with the voices of children, it echoes with music,it is filled with life.We havefeasted in here, we have sung songs and performed plays, we have played games and even lassoed a piñata.This noisy and wonderful room buzzeswith activity and warmth.It isthe center of the school, the place where we gather together and know that we are not alone. From thisday forward, this room shall be called The Ted Martinez Auditorium.”

I'm so glad we did that. About a year or two ago, Ted had a heart attack, with all sorts of complications, and he abruptly withdrewfrom social contact, preferring to be private in his frailty and suffering. Thelast time I talked to him was on the phone last summer. I asked if I could stopby and visit him sometime, and he said he wasn’t ready. “If I’m gonna have aconversation with anyone, I wanna be able to be at least a 50%participant. I’ll let you know.” And I never heard from him again, but Imanaged to connect with his wife Angie a few weeks ago.I learned that Ted is living in thedesert now. That old Yaqui Indian, healways did like the desert. Angie says he’s comfortable.

Recently I went back to Vista for an art show and fund-raising event held in the auditorium. I paused at the entrance to look again at the plaque that bears Ted’s name and this inscription, “Acciones, mas que palabras, son las pruebas de amor.” (Works, more than words, are the proofs of love.) I mentioned to the new principal that I knew the man for whom this auditorium was named, but the principal didn’t appear to beeven remotely interested. In fact, I had a hard time finding anyone there who had known Ted. I suppose that’s because the kids whose lives he touched have grown up and scattered. But you know what? Living on in many hearts is way more meaningful than having your name attached to a building.

I am fond of a certain poem by Luis Omar Salinas that he wrote about his father. It makes me think of my own father, of course, but also of Ted. And I offer it here this time for Ted, my good friend in the desert, a man with dignity, an old chunk of coal who long ago became a diamond. It concludes:

The truth of it is, he’s the scholar,

and when the bitter-hard reality comes at me

like a punishing evil stranger,

I can always remember that here was a man

who was a worker and provider,

who learned the simple facts in life and lived by them,

who held no pretense.

And when he leaves withoutbenefit of fanfare or applause

I shall have learned what little there is about greatness.