The way he’d throw his keys on his desk, the one next to mine, stacked with papers and tests to be graded. I can hear it now, the resignation, the ‘here we go again’ nature of it, the sigh implied.
The cadence, the rhythm. The pauses. His use of empty space while weaving a story. The way he’d slow down, repeat words for maximum dramatic effect, until somehow it felt like the first time you’d ever truly understood the meaning of those words.
His awe at talent and athletic prowess, interpretations about sports that made me wonder why I’d never been captivated by any of them. Though I’d much rather listen to him wax on about a game, any game, than actually see it.
How he’d recount his mother wielding her crop of zucchini like a weapon, mincing, chopping, sautéing it into everything. His sense of humor never far yet such reverence for fly fishing and moose sightings. How he spent a night sleeping on the enormous smooth rocks at the north shore, watching the quiet sun rise over the water.
How, when contemplative, he’d lean back and toss one arm up to rest on the top of his head, his thousand yard stare announcing that we were about to hear something worthy. How his take on an incident, any incident, was never the version I’d assumed he’d have—often the opposite—and infinitely more nuanced.
The swamp of anxiety students would have when placed in his World History section, how many different ways I’d hear them say, you don’t understand, we’re not going to get along. The way he’d then foist discipline upon them. (Wait a minute, WaitAMinute.) How in less than four months I’d hear his principles as their own, his fan club expanded. They’d glimpsed it, the tender waiting patiently under the tough.
Or maybe they saw his whimsy, his quick wit, his joy at unexpected moments, how arguing was his love language. His smile threading his tone when he found someone who could laugh at his observations about them. Or, even better, after a quip as dry as the high desert, he’d hear a snicker from somewhere in his classroom as a sense of humor was honed.
The way he knew all the developmentally disabled kids names and would greet them intentionally, individually. How he taught me that the difficult messages we’d rather avoid telling students were the kindest messages of all, no empty space needed.
How much he loved the personalities that surrounded him, saw the value of time spent together. How many student notes of praise and thankfulness we found while cleaning out his desk, his classroom. How lucky I was to have a front row seat, his desk a reminder of the quiet miracles of hard work, talent, and the natural world. Still there, now in too much empty space.
Jennifer Cox 