Rumni Saha: My Boss

By Guest

The following story was written by Rumni Saha, author of the weekly Citizen column “Kitchen Musings” and a teacher at the Galvin Middle School.

The very word “boss” has an air of authority. Quite often, it carries a negative connotation — largely because of people like me.

It was in the summer of 2011 that I first met my new boss. I had already made up my mind that I was not going to like him as much as my old boss, who was the most easygoing and laid-back, and in my eyes, the only perfect educator.

The first thing I noticed was my new boss’s piercing laughter, which I began to dissect right away. There was something calm about him, too, which I could not fathom, but concluded that it was his calculated mind — out to get me.

I had my first closed-door meeting with the boss during the first week of school. That is when he calmly informed me that I could no longer leave the monthly meetings 15 minutes before everyone else. “What difference would 15 minutes make?” I complained to myself, yet could not argue with his rock-solid logic: “If I let you go early, I have to let others go early, too, if they ask.” Bad for me but fair no doubt. I was temporarily distraught over finding childcare for 15 minutes a month but was eventually (surprisingly) pleased at how the casual pressure he created made me more efficient in finding a solution. Over the next few months something strange began to happen: The same push to find better solutions to mundane problems made all of us better at what we did; even I was impressed!

Soon after, I realized that the saintly aura I had noticed was truly virtuous. During a casual conversation I found out that this educator was a humanist first — someone who had spent time volunteering with Mother Theresa in the slums of Calcutta. I, who grew up a stone’s throw away from the Missionaries of Charity but had systematically chosen to turn a blind eye to their unbelievable work and their undeniable dedication, knew that this was no easy feat. By then all of us were beginning to realize that the calm that we had seen in the boss’s eyes was sincere — Dr. Conard was a good guy!

In the next few months the young, vibrant principal started making heads turn and all of us were touched by his genuine desire to do better. He set a great example by getting down and dirty, working alongside all of us to transform GMS into a well-oiled machine, churning out smarts with emotion. His motto, “Smart is not what we are but what we become,” slowly started converting the non-believers as well. His zest for life, his genuine passion to make things better for each kid, and his firm belief that no matter how good we are, we can do better were truly contagious. During one staff meeting he did an extensive presentation on an iceberg, comparing it to a student’s untapped potential, and even though all of us were itching to get out of there at that late hour, it struck a chord with us.

GMS was a happy place, the morale was high, and everyone was brimming with energy and renewed faith that had trickled down from our new boss.

Needless to say, it seemed like a cruel, heartless joke to hear one balmy October afternoon this past fall an announcement from this young man of endless potential that he had been diagnosed with cancer. There were gasps and then tears from the room full of consummate professionals. In the midst of our utter disbelief, Dr. Conard assured us that he would be okay. When asked what we could do for him, he smiled teary-eyed and said, “Just pray for me. I believe in the power of prayer; in fact, if anyone has anything they would like me to pray for, send them my way.” The room burst into laughter instantly, but that would be the last time GMS would laugh together for a long time.

In the months that followed, it was business as usual at school because of some very dedicated souls, but its soul was missing. There was not one person in that building who did not genuinely hurt because of the boss’s pain. We all waited with baited breath to hear good news, yet no one dared ask for fear of being disappointed. Each one of us, believer and non-believer alike, said a prayer for him just like he had asked us to. We were angry at that unspeakable disease and helpless at the unfair injustice that had been meted out to our good boss. There was pressure like we had never known, but no solution this time.

The day before Thanksgiving break, when the whole school was engaged in the annual “Turkey Trot,” I heard a distant but familiar laugh that seemed to be somewhat aching and tired. As I turned around, I caught a glimpse of our boss with his signature spirit but a broken body. I decided to go inside the building without confronting my fear. Someone mentioned that he looked great; yeah right, who were we kidding? We spent each holiday after that grateful to have time off, but deep down somewhere, we ached for our boss.

On January 2 we returned to work, hopeful but nervous. No one asked, but everyone wondered if our boss was back.

The new year indeed brought with it new hope for all of us. After a long hiatus battling the demon, Dr. Conard was back and with him was the morale that had temporarily disappeared. That morning we celebrated with coffee and bagels, and I must admit that never has a cup of coffee tasted so sweet. We were all grateful to have our boss back — armed with his contagious laugh, his unbroken spirit, his unassuming calm, and most of all, his unending faith that we can all be better no matter how good we are. His expectations for us are high, the pressure is on and we will not let him down. If he could fight the worst battle of his life and come out victorious, we certainly can fight a good battle together where everyone wins.

As we bring to a close another school year, I must admit that each of us at the Galvin has become a little smarter. Thanks to the smarts of our boss, we too are beginning to believe in the power of the iceberg that lies within all of us. Thank you, Dr. Conard!

Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow has not yet come. We have only today. Let us begin. ―Mother Teresa

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