The Drama of Life

In high school my English teacher was Jonathan Pearce. He was handsome, and particularly intriguing when he wore dark glasses outside the classroom, which gave him the look of a special government agent, or secretive spy. Everything he said was fascinating, articulated in a softly resonant voice. He received the respect of students by first respecting them. He called us "Mr. Jones" and "Miss Smith," for example. He was not a man to grin. Instead, he had a smile that played gently at the corners of his mouth. When angered or frustrated, he never raised his voice or slammed his fist on the desk. He let his eyes alone tell the story titled, "Beware."

My friends accused me of having a crush on him, but to this day I deny that. There was no crush. I was in love with him! As only a teenage girl can be when confronted with the first man to treat her kindly instead of constantly yelling obscenities at her and hitting her, as was my stepfather's way. I suppose I assumed all men were crude and crass, with a cruel streak. Till high school English, when this new man in my life was different. A gentleman! He gave me A's on my tests and essays. An A, in my book, meant "Acceptable," an exciting new concept for me, and so I strove for A+s. Better yet was the A+ that was accompanied by a favorable comment, written in red ink!

When I married my high school sweetheart at 18, it was basically to get away from my stepfather. But in true psychological fashion, I chose a mate with many of the same traits as my stepfather. Theory states that we do this in order to, on some level, remain comfortable with what is familiar to us. Later in life I surmounted that tendency, and married a man who, in retrospect, is more like Mr. Pearce. Kind to me, accepting, gentle, intelligent. There isn't the same mystery about him, however, since I actually got to know Frank, whereas I've always admired Mr. Pearce from afar.

We've stayed in touch off and on through more than fifty years. At some point I began, at his request, calling him Jonathan. By surname or first name, those who know me well understand when they hear me speak it that I'm talking about someone special to me. The similarity between him and my husband-now-of-34-years never dawned on me (consciously) until I had the privilege once of listening to the two of them in conversation when Frank and I spent some quality time with Jonathan a few years ago. Frank took a picture of us, posing me cross legged on the deck in front of Jonathan, seated on a bench at his home in Lake Tahoe. The photo is now framed and hanging on my office wall. We call it, "Seated at the Feet of the Master."

Jonathan is the reason I am a writer. Amazing what positive reinforcement from an important authority figure will do. He told me way back then that I was a writer, and I wanted to be, sensing this would please him. But it took me many years to grow into the assigned role. For a long time I was too busy living my life, to write about it.

I've always remembered one particular comment Jonathan made when encouraging me back then to write. He said about fiction, that we never have to search far for subject matter, because "there is so much drama cramming itself into our heads in real life." Oddly, this truth is what inspired me to write what I've been writing these past few moments. The drama of real life.

When I learned a few days ago that a classmate from the fifties had recently been murdered in Washington along with her husband, by their son-in-law, who then shot himself, I knew Jonathan would want to hear the news, tragic though it is. I believe the man remembers every student who ever sat before him in the classroom, and has never lost interest in the story of their lives. When I e-mailed him, sure enough he remembered Susan and her brother, who was in the class ahead of us. Jonathan replied with the comment that they were fine people, and that the news saddened him. I share those observations.

Thing is, when I sat earlier staring down at my keyboard and up at the blank screen of my monitor, my intention was to write about Susan, but I ended up writing more about Jonathan. I find this to be the nature of writing, when you trust it enough to let it take you where you didn't know you wanted to go. I think Susan would understand. Her husband was an educator for more than 40 years, and her class reunion autobiography states that she did "some writing and editing," herself. Obviously I wasn't the only one whose life has been influenced significantly by Jonathan.

My fervent hope is that there are more teachers out there of his caliber, but I find myself dubious. In the drama of life that might be too good to be true.