THE NUMBER THREE HAS LONG BEEN CONSIDERED A magic number—a mystically powerful number—in many cultures around the world. And so it is, judging by three events that occurred in swift succession in my forensic-anthropology classroom, two days after Kevin McNulty had tripped Mona Faruz.
Event number one: I arrived early for class, as I generally do, but for once, I wasn’t the first one in the auditorium. Two students—girls who tended to sit in the back and disappear behind their computer screens, e-mailing or posting on Facebook, judging by their grades—stood just inside the doorway. “Well, you’re certainly here early,” I observed cheerily. They blushed and looked from me to each other, as if they had some sort of secret about which they felt both self-conscious and pleased. They didn’t seem inclined to confide it to me, though, so I gave them a generic smile and headed up to the table at the front, to unpack today’s teaching specimens. It wasn’t long before their secret came to light, though: As soon as another female student entered, the two girls at the door offered her an assortment of brightly covered scarves. The new arrival selected one, then arranged it over her hair like a hijab, and the two scarf-bearers did likewise. As more students arrived, the ritual was repeated: the scarves were offered to every female student, and every one chose and donned a scarf. The male students—initially puzzled, then swiftly grasping the message—reacted, for the most part, by giving thumbs-up signs and smiles of approval. One, though, reacted rather differently: Kevin McNulty arrived only moments before class was due to start; seeing the display of hijab solidarity, he blanched, then turned crimson. I half expected him to turn and flee, but surprisingly—bravely—he walked slowly to the front row and took a seat, all eyes riveted to him. I, too, looked at him, raising my eyebrows, and he responded with a barely perceptible nod.
Event number two: I checked my watch, then cleared my throat. “All right, let’s get started,” I said. “We’re talking about postcranial skeletal trauma today, and we’ve got a lot to cover. But first, I believe, Mr. McNulty has something to say?”
With a slowness that seemed painful, McNulty stood, took two steps toward me, and then turned to face the class. His eyes swept the room until they found Mona, who was seated, for once, in the very back row. “I behaved badly at the end of the last class,” he began. “Rudely, meanly, and stupidly. I should have known better. My great-grandfather’s grandfather—or maybe it was his great-grandfather, I lose track of the ‘greats’—came to America in 1838. He was about my age, and about my size, but he weighed half as much as I do. That’s because he was starving, like a lot of people in Ireland were. I found this out by talking to my grandmother for a long time last night. ‘Big Paddy,’ that’s what they called him—even his nickname was a joke. He barely survived the voyage from Ireland, and then he nearly starved once he got to New York, because he couldn’t find work. He got beaten up, more than once, and got called a lot of names, and got treated like dirt.” He paused, and looked down, collecting himself, then looked at Mona again and went on. “The point is, my family got treated the same way I treated Mona the other day. Mona, I apologize. You didn’t deserve to be treated that way. I’m sorry, and I’m ashamed.” He extended his arms to either side, palms up. “I hope you can forgive me.”
The room was silent—silent, but electric—and everyone turned toward Mona, following his gaze. After what seemed a long time, Mona stood, as slowly as McNulty had. “Yes,” she said finally. “I can. I do.” Then she pressed her hands together as if in prayer and bowed slightly. Another charged silence followed, and then—almost like a replay of the prior class ending—one student began to clap, and soon the entire auditorium was filled with applause, the students on their feet clapping and cheering, some of them smiling, some of them crying.
Event number three: As the students quieted and settled into their seats, Miranda—whom I hadn’t even realized was present—came from one side of the auditorium and said to me, “Dr. B? May I have a moment?” I nodded, and she turned to face the class, her coppery hair, like that of the other female students, covered with a scarf. “I behaved badly last time, too. I let my anger run away with me. I said things and I did things that I’m embarrassed about and sorry for. I apologize to all of you for my outburst. Kevin, I particularly apologize to you. I was wrong to grab you, and I was wrong to speak to you the way I did. And I hope that you can forgive me.” McNulty stood up again. He looked at her for a long moment, then gave a slow, sheepish smile and stretched out his hand, and they shook.
Class—even to me; even though I was showing my favorite examples of skeletal trauma—was more than a bit anticlimactic.