Wiretrippa
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Jan 19, 2002
- Messages
- 896
I found out a few days ago that one of my high-school teachers passed away. It was very sudden, and I didn't get the chance to go to the funeral. This is my attempt to put into words what kind of a person he was, and how I feel about his passing. I would welcome any comments you may have.
Wire.
In Memoriam
In this modern age of technology, memory is underrated. We have e-mail, digital cameras, and a myriad other options with which to solidify our pasts and help us put the present in context. And yet, the memories we have of those who are close to us, whilst a far more subjective version of events, are the emotive ties that bind us to who we were and who we knew far more effectively than a photo or chunk of text.
Portable Classroom 10 was a squat, odd building that hunkered in a back corner of Forest High like a homeless man. It was a temporary structure that had seemingly outlived its usefulness. But in 1992, it was one more thing. It was Peter Steel's art class.
The first time I met Peter was during roll-call. I responded to my name with a hopefully bold "Yo". He looked me dead in the eye. "My son says 'yo'. I don't like it." However, there was a wicked glint in his eye, and I grinned at the beak-nosed bear of a man. He grinned back.
Later on that year, I responded to a dressing down he was giving me for a late project with a then-typical unpleasant comment. His eyes narrowed, and I thought, for a terrified second, that the fabled anger would explode. But the glint, ever-present, resurfaced. "You are a black-humoured little shit, aren't you?" he replied, and moved on.
As the years passed, and I realised my complete absence of artistic ability, Mr. Steel was less of a presence. His striding gait and gesticulation-ridden manner of speech was in the background. During these years I heard some of the bevy of rumours that followed the man. He was only teaching for the holidays. He had Army training and could kill someone with his bare hands. He was a ladies man of the highest degree. He was at constant war with every member of the school's administration.
Well, mostly rumours.
In 1995, my mother died after a long illness. By that time, Peter held a position that went by the legalese title of 'Supervisor of Students', a kind of third-in-command role. Two weeks after returning to school, I was confronted by him in a hallway.
"Teacher's staff room, last period."
When I arrived, he was in the midst of brewing coffee. Without turning around he said "Protocol demands that I speak with you within a few days of you returning." He turned and held out a mug of coffee to me. "Protocol is a horrible affliction. How are you?" We talked for over an hour, and began a solid friendship.
For the next three years, I watched as 'Steely' moved quietly, pleasantly, and with a general disregard for protocol around the school. He gave up many free periods to talk with me about life matters, and his advice was always welcome, as was his wit. He never regarded me as anything but an equal, and honour he bestowed on many of the students. He was an ardent believer in following one's own path, and his love of art was more a convenience than a reason for his chosen profession. He went where the other teachers wouldn't, or couldn't, driving his van over to the nearby shopping centre on the pretence of finding truants, and then doing his shopping and having a chat with said truants before heading back. His classes were focused when he wished it so, but the radio was always on, and conversation was welcomed.
Most of all, Steely's presence was matched by his absence. Not seeing him around was only a sign that he would appear behind you, ready to dispense wisdom and then, if necessary, give you an earful. I have never seen a man move as swiftly or quietly in plain sight, his quarry oblivious to his approach. He moved underneath the radar, surfacing only when he had something he really wanted to make known. Understatement and clarity with every statement and argument. And I never, ever saw him lose that temper.
After graduation, I made the occasional trip up to the school, and catching up with Peter was high on my list of priorities. We would laugh about the old days and compare notes on how life was treating us. Once I was taken to his house on Scotland Island for lunch, an afternoon I will always remember fondly.
The last time I saw Peter Steel, he was still moving below the radar. We shook hands, bitched about the administration, and walked around the school grounds in search of truants. In the company of some other teachers, he gestured to me and remarked "you can see him being a teacher, can't you?".
Peter, you taught me about some things. You taught me about clarity of thought, consideration of motive, understanding of background, and the value of personal information and interaction. You even taught me a little about Art.
And in this age of digital remembrance, removing your phone number from my mobile phone will be as difficult as any goodbye I could hope to offer.
Travel well old friend.
Wire.
In Memoriam
In this modern age of technology, memory is underrated. We have e-mail, digital cameras, and a myriad other options with which to solidify our pasts and help us put the present in context. And yet, the memories we have of those who are close to us, whilst a far more subjective version of events, are the emotive ties that bind us to who we were and who we knew far more effectively than a photo or chunk of text.
Portable Classroom 10 was a squat, odd building that hunkered in a back corner of Forest High like a homeless man. It was a temporary structure that had seemingly outlived its usefulness. But in 1992, it was one more thing. It was Peter Steel's art class.
The first time I met Peter was during roll-call. I responded to my name with a hopefully bold "Yo". He looked me dead in the eye. "My son says 'yo'. I don't like it." However, there was a wicked glint in his eye, and I grinned at the beak-nosed bear of a man. He grinned back.
Later on that year, I responded to a dressing down he was giving me for a late project with a then-typical unpleasant comment. His eyes narrowed, and I thought, for a terrified second, that the fabled anger would explode. But the glint, ever-present, resurfaced. "You are a black-humoured little shit, aren't you?" he replied, and moved on.
As the years passed, and I realised my complete absence of artistic ability, Mr. Steel was less of a presence. His striding gait and gesticulation-ridden manner of speech was in the background. During these years I heard some of the bevy of rumours that followed the man. He was only teaching for the holidays. He had Army training and could kill someone with his bare hands. He was a ladies man of the highest degree. He was at constant war with every member of the school's administration.
Well, mostly rumours.
In 1995, my mother died after a long illness. By that time, Peter held a position that went by the legalese title of 'Supervisor of Students', a kind of third-in-command role. Two weeks after returning to school, I was confronted by him in a hallway.
"Teacher's staff room, last period."
When I arrived, he was in the midst of brewing coffee. Without turning around he said "Protocol demands that I speak with you within a few days of you returning." He turned and held out a mug of coffee to me. "Protocol is a horrible affliction. How are you?" We talked for over an hour, and began a solid friendship.
For the next three years, I watched as 'Steely' moved quietly, pleasantly, and with a general disregard for protocol around the school. He gave up many free periods to talk with me about life matters, and his advice was always welcome, as was his wit. He never regarded me as anything but an equal, and honour he bestowed on many of the students. He was an ardent believer in following one's own path, and his love of art was more a convenience than a reason for his chosen profession. He went where the other teachers wouldn't, or couldn't, driving his van over to the nearby shopping centre on the pretence of finding truants, and then doing his shopping and having a chat with said truants before heading back. His classes were focused when he wished it so, but the radio was always on, and conversation was welcomed.
Most of all, Steely's presence was matched by his absence. Not seeing him around was only a sign that he would appear behind you, ready to dispense wisdom and then, if necessary, give you an earful. I have never seen a man move as swiftly or quietly in plain sight, his quarry oblivious to his approach. He moved underneath the radar, surfacing only when he had something he really wanted to make known. Understatement and clarity with every statement and argument. And I never, ever saw him lose that temper.
After graduation, I made the occasional trip up to the school, and catching up with Peter was high on my list of priorities. We would laugh about the old days and compare notes on how life was treating us. Once I was taken to his house on Scotland Island for lunch, an afternoon I will always remember fondly.
The last time I saw Peter Steel, he was still moving below the radar. We shook hands, bitched about the administration, and walked around the school grounds in search of truants. In the company of some other teachers, he gestured to me and remarked "you can see him being a teacher, can't you?".
Peter, you taught me about some things. You taught me about clarity of thought, consideration of motive, understanding of background, and the value of personal information and interaction. You even taught me a little about Art.
And in this age of digital remembrance, removing your phone number from my mobile phone will be as difficult as any goodbye I could hope to offer.
Travel well old friend.
