David Colburn

Aside from actually teaching, there’s nothing I love more from my years in education than graduations. The pomp and circumstance of that consequential right of passage never fails to inspire, no matter the level. And not a graduation goes by for me without thoughts of the most inspirational student/graduate of my career, Lori Mahoney.
I took a job as a professor in the early childhood education program at St. Louis Community College-Florissant Valley in 1993, somewhat of a dream job after stops at Dodge City Community College (yes, I’m someone who actually did get the hell out of Dodge) and the College of DuPage in suburban Chicago. Flo Valley had long been known in ECE circles as a program of excellence, and I quickly found that it did not disappoint – the curriculum was innovative, the lab school a true model, and my colleagues as gifted and committed as any I’d ever worked with.
However, they had a puzzle that they weren’t quite sure what to do with, and that puzzle was Lori. She was automatically considered a non-traditional student by virtue of being in college in her late thirties, but it was well more than that. Lori had serious diabetes that had had robbed her of one kidney and most of her eyesight – she was legally blind but could make out large shapes and colors. She had her good days and weeks and not so good ones when she’d have to go to the hospital to get stabilized.
But those things didn’t stop Lori from pursuing her dream of teaching young children. We could stop her, though, and my colleagues felt that maybe we should. Vision was essential for supervising young children, they said, and Lori’s lack of vision would be a liability that would keep her from ever finishing a degree, let alone get a teaching job in early childhood. Was it fair to her, they asked, to hold out the hope of something she couldn’t attain? 
I argued that that was something for Lori to decide, not us. If she wanted to try, it was up to us to give her the chance. If she could complete the coursework in a competency-based program like ours, she would be qualified and employable. And if not, well, she knew the challenges better than anyone else, and she was strong enough to accept the consequences if she couldn’t pass.
Lori took classes as she was able, and she was one of the best and brightest. The college was able to accommodate her special needs for testing, and she sailed through the coursework with relative ease, demonstrating above-average creativity.
A big decision point came in the fall of 1995, when it was time to do the first of three required student teaching experiences. Another professor taught the first two classes, while I had the final, most demanding one. It took a little arm twisting from me, but the professor decided to let her enroll in the first class, one that focused on implementing specific activities and interacting with kids throughout the day. No responsibilities for overall classroom operations or supervision – in essence, an aide, an extra set of hands working alongside qualified staff.
Lori aced it. The kids and staff fell in love with her, and her activities were textbook perfect. One down, two to go.
The second class was a bit more involved and included a week at the end where Lori would have to plan the entire curriculum, direct staff, and monitor the classroom. This was the biggest hurdle yet, but I knew that if she could get through it, I would have no problem getting her through the final student teaching class.
Again, Lori was nothing short of amazing. Her lab classroom teachers said she was one of the best students they’d ever had, her week as head teacher went off without a hitch, and now it was my turn to make sure she got that degree she was so passionate about. I was so excited for her and knew I’d do whatever I needed to help make it happen.
It was summer semester, 1996, and the condensed eight week schedule meant twice the hours in the classroom with kids each day, more hours spent planning, working each day as a full member of the teaching team, and the additional challenge of completing an extensive professional portfolio showing evidence of applying all she’d learned in her studies, supported statements reflecting the relevant theories and curriculum content she’d been taught. Her health had deteriorated a bit more at that point, more unpredictable, and the toll on her physically was apparent to everyone who knew her. But the finish line was right ahead, and absolutely nothing was going to stop her from getting there. She found a way to handle the pace and even exceed it – she walked into my office a week early with her completed portfolio, beaming from ear to ear. Her lesson plans for that next week were already done, too – she said she wanted her last week with the children to be one where she could give them her total, unstressed attention and just enjoy it.
The week started out well, but on Wednesday, Lori didn’t come into the lab school. We got a call from her family saying she’d had a medical crisis and was in the hospital. On Thursday, Lori died, a day short of finishing the semester, a day short of the dream of graduation that had kept her going throughout the years of pain, fatigue, and the doubts of so many that she could do it.
Forgive me, but I think it’s OK to point out that this is the spot in Lori’s story where if I’m speaking about it, I get pretty choked up. Many of you, particularly any who might have been teachers, probably feel some of that, too. All of us were devastated when we heard the news – Lori’s quest had become one owned by all of us at Flo Valley, every professor, every lab teacher, every fellow student, and all the families of the lab school who knew and loved her. All of us, including Lori, knew she couldn’t run a class all on her own – someone had to have eyes on that rambunctious two-year old on the other side of the room, and Lori couldn’t do that. But we all knew that paired with other staff, Lori would’ve been one of the best early childhood teachers ever. She really, really was that good.
After the initial shock had worn off, I pulled up Lori’s timesheets. She’d finished the portfolio early, finished all of her lesson plans – maybe she’d found a way to get in the required hours in the classroom before the final day of class, too. And the wonderful, happy answer was yes, she had. There was nearly a week’s worth of hours over the requirement. She may not have walked in the ceremony, but Lori Mahoney had met every requirement necessary to earn her degree. No need to fudge on my part at all (and I wouldn’t have out of respect for Lori, though I’d have been tempted) – it was all there. I remember well writing that A beside her name on the final grade roster, how I felt turning it in, and while bittersweet, the awarding of her degree posthumously. Lori Mahoney, A.A.S. in early childhood education.
I believe you’ll find some of the most inspirational stories of achievement in the community college ranks – the students who are the first ever in their families to graduate from college, students siphoned off to the side as troublemakers and failures in high school who came back years, even decades later to earn their degrees, and more. I always think, too, of Jo Pope, a single mother of three who worked two jobs while taking one class a quarter, year after year, many of them mine, until she finally walked the stage at the College of DuPage.
But for me, Lori stands above and apart from them all. In all the ways that matter, Lori Mahoney became the best while facing huge odds stacked against her. I can’t take credit for any of her success, but I do take satisfaction from my role in helping her achieve it. She’ll remain an inspiration until the day I die, and I’m glad to have the memories every time another graduation ceremony comes around. Graduations are special. Lori knew that. It’s just that hers came with a pair of wings and a halo and probably one of the best teaching assignments available on the other side of those big pearly gates.