Randy Tucker's Show, Man, Is Always Goin' On

“Risk more than others think is safe, care more than others think is wise, dream more than others think is practical, expect more than others think is possible.” – Cadet Maxim
 

Numb. Eerie. Sad. Shocked. I can’t pick just one emotion that coursed through me when I read the news: GPS Headmaster Randy Tucker killed in car crash.

It’s a mistake. I was just at GPS four days ago surprise visiting my lovely senior friends. I thought of him when I walked past the Headmaster’s office. How intimidated I felt every time I went in there, no matter what year I was (student or alum), even to say a simple hello. I thought of our junior ring event in Caldwell, for which Mr. Tucker was one of our bouncers. I thought of the number we did on the patio for our last day of school, also the day that an incredibly talented quintet filmed our class music video to “The Show Goes On” by Lupe Fiasco. Mr. Tucker’s cameo saying ‘Haters in the building’ in a sunhat while raising the roof, makes me smile with pleasant poignancy. I think of when I saw him at Carrabba’s, when he said, ‘Well hello, Laura’ as he gave me a hug. I wasn’t out of braces, and he still knew my name. That was cool. I think of going to the Founders’ House for the Honor Council welcome dinner, where he taught me the difference between Honors and AP classes. I was only in 8^th grade, so the thought of taking college-like classes was an eye-widener. I think of the senior dinner, again at the Founders’ House, the evening before we met our rats, and how he told us to get ready for a fun year but not to do anything foolish. I think of how he called me while I was at a Model UN conference in Knoxville when my safety was put at risk. Even from 100 miles away, he protected me. I think of how he opened the first assembly with the circle analogy, in which the 6^th graders, who had just walked in to enthusiastic cheers from the entire school, were just starting their circle at GPS. The seniors, by contrast, were preparing to close theirs off and say goodbyes. I could go on for a stint with more memories as they come to me.

It’s times like these that adhering to the Cadet Maxim is most painful and yet most crucial. I kick myself for caring too deeply, too openly. For regarding others’ happiness as tantamount to my own. For taking the risk of sharing my gratitude and love in the first place. Why do I do this?

When you care more than others think is wise, the pain that follows an insolent remark or a sudden loss stings more than it would. Your feelings get hurt when someone you think is a friend, or at least not a sworn enemy, makes fun of you or makes you feel unwanted with an offhand comment. Maybe not with malicious intent, maybe not with any mind activity as their lips moved, but your feelings still end up hurt. You feel extra mopey when a friend, family member, or acquaintance passes away. The intensity of the loneliness, the dismay, the emotional suffering is the price you pay for loving people with all your heart.

Now I could sulk, pout, mope. I could be angry at fate, the asphalt, the bystanders, the helicopter that couldn’t fly fast enough. I could wish he had retired this year, per his original plan, in which case he wouldn’t have been on that stretch of highway. But my sullen attitude wouldn’t change anything. It would only make me more bitter, more hurt than I already feel.

So how to respond instead?

What you get in return in the grand scheme of things when you care deeply for others makes such intense caring worth it. You spend less time wondering whether your family and friends know you love and appreciate them because you tell them all the time. You forge stronger bonds with the people in your life because you honestly believe they are there for a reason. Relationships cannot be reduced to opportunity costs or other economic terms, but from my whopping two semesters of Econ, I can say that the opportunity cost of being surrounded with people whom you love and support, and who love and support you right back, is immeasurable. There is no alternative to having the friends and family I have in my life, because without them, I wouldn’t be who I am, where I am. I would have a permanent hole in my existence, which would be even more painful than the temporary chasm of grief I have in my heart right now.

Even as I finish this, a sliver of me still feels like the news is a mistake. My entirety wishes it were. I am overwhelmed by the solidarity I’ve witnessed among the GPS family. I am proud to say I am an alum of Girls Preparatory School, my school. And I am unabashed in my pride, caring more than others think is wise about my school. Non-Chattanoogans don’t always understand the love I have for GPS, but I have so many chances to share that love with them. And if they think I’m crazy to still cherish and miss my high school this much, well, that’s their loss.

To Mrs. Tucker, Trey, and Taylor, my heart goes out to you all Thank you for sharing such a substantial part of your lives with GPS and adding to its growth and character along the way. The school would not be what it is today without the Tuckers’ magic touch. To the entire GPS network, may we think back on our fond remembrances to stem the sadness. And to Mr. Tucker, may you always know what a big, positive impact you had on so many students, teachers, staff, and parents. That impact will never perish.