You're So Pretty

About eight years ago I taught a class at the Community College. It was a basic Internet class: how to email, how to google, how to navigate the Internet. This class was almost just like every other computer class I have taught over the last fourteen years at my local Community College, except for one key difference.

I had no idea that this class was composed entirely of mental patients.

They were awesome.

And when I say that I had no idea about their mental health I mean I had them in class for four hours and had absolutely no idea. My department head had to tell me.

And a week later she did.

Then she laughed because of all the people that teach these kind of classes at the school, she knew that I'd be the only one who wouldn't immediately sense that this class was different.

And that I wouldn't care.

She was right.

For several reasons, this group of fourteen people became one of my most favorite classes. I know instructors aren't supposed to have favorites. But I do.

I have favorite classes. And favorite students, some I'm still in touch with today.

In this particular class, one of my favorite students was a guy named Richard.

Richard was short for a man, had a shiny bald head, and talked like the sound was coming out of his nose instead of his mouth. Physically he had very little going for him: twisted legs requiring the use of crutches, large misshapen fingers that made touching one key on the keyboard at a time extremely difficult, and glasses so thick they entered the classroom three minutes before Richard did.

Richard was one of the most positive, sunny people I've ever met.

He always entered my classroom and yelled "Helllllloooo lovely!" at me. I liked Richard.

Richard would raise his hand to ask me questions during class and he ended every question with the phrase "you're so pretty". And then he'd blush a deep pink.

"My password isn't working. Can you help me fix it? You're so pretty." *blush*

"I left my thumb drive at home. Do you have an extra I can borrow? You're so pretty." *blush blush*

"What's the name of that search engine? Not Google, but the other one? You're so pretty." *blush blush blush*

After spending a couple of hours twice a week with Richard thinking that I was pretty had me feeling good about myself: I had recently had a second baby and turned 30. Not exactly times of feeling incredibly attractive.

But Richard thought I was pretty and his attitude was starting to rub off on me.

I thought I was the only one he thought was pretty.

Until I followed him out of class one night.

He was several feet ahead of me shuffling down the hall. I saw him stop in front of a rather large muscly campus security guard sporting a John Oates mustache. Richard asked the mustachioed security guard to help him look for his bus pass. He ended the request, as he always did in class, with the phrase "you're so pretty".

He said to the security guard "Can you help me find my bus pass? It's in my backpack. You're so pretty." *blush*

Apparently Richard says that to everyone.

Even large muscly campus security guards sporting John Oates mustaches.

And for some reason, that made me smile.

I don't really know why I'm telling you this story today other than I recently found out that Richard passed away the end of last year. I wish I had known at the time. I would have gone to say good-bye to him.

Good-bye Richard.

You're so pretty.

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