Teachers

A morning scroll through my Facebook feed revealed a piece of unwanted news.  Of all the teachers who have taught me, guided me, helped me choose my path, one stands out as the most influential.  And he is dead.  Joe David Bellamy died suddenly on August 5.  I am trying to sort through my emotions on this one.  Bear with me.

Last week in the A&P, I ran into my 8th grade science and math teacher, John Sim.  Fifty years later, John still knows who I am and greets me with a welcoming smile.  We chat near the cheese display, maneuvering our carts away from the other shoppers.  John tells me that he hasn't been out in awhile because he's been too upset.  What's wrong, John? I ask.  A former colleague of his has died at age 67.  Whenever I run into John, our conversation seems to veer toward life and death.  John lost his wife a few years ago, and I think he is just waiting to join her.  Yet his wit and his appreciation for the people he knows keeps him smiling.

I go back in memory to 1964.  Beatlemania was in full force, the New York World's Fair was the place to be, Mary Quant was telling us what to wear, and hormones were raging in those of us who were turning 14.  This is what John was battling every day as he tried to teach us math and science.  We were terrible students.  But John was a kind man, and today we can joke about the pranks my classmates pulled, thinking we'd pulled the wool over John's eyes.  In truth, John knew what we were up to all the time, and resisted letting us know his amusement at our hijinks.  All these years later, when I think of John, I think of a man so full of kindness . . . although I've retained little of the math and science he so painstakingly taught us.

Joe David Bellamy was my writing professor in college.  My memory contains a snapshot of 20-year-old me in my mini-skirt and chunky shoes, sitting in the second seat in the last row, captivated by the handsome man in front of the classroom sporting a black armband.  It was the spring of 1970, and the protest was against Nixon's invasion of Cambodia.  The draft lottery system had recently been enacted; blue plastic capsules containing birth dates were selected from a large glass container to determine who had to leave his life to go fight in the Vietnam Conflict.  It was a difficult time on college campuses, and we were soon to be thrown further into chaos with the killings at Kent State a few days later.  In retrospect, I think this was the day that I woke up.  If this professor whom I admired so much could be this shaken by the events of the day, I knew I had to pay attention.

But for the most part, I remember Joe as a mentor.  It was Joe who convinced me that I had some talent as a writer, it was Joe who named me editor of the college's literary magazine, it was Joe who scolded me for "wasting my life" teaching in a small town in Pennsylvania, it was Joe who pointed me toward a graduate assistantship in an MFA program in Ohio, it was Joe who again, ten years later, encouraged me to complete that mission, this time in Vermont, and it was Joe who continued to advise me as my daughter decided to pursue the same degree decades later.  A constant friend as we communicated first through letters and phone calls, then emails, then Facebook, I was not prepared that one day, Joe would no longer be there.  (And if it were not for Facebook, I might never have known.)

So today, I am in love with the teachers who change our lives.  The beauty in that is that they don't know they're doing it.  Whether it's assignments, grades, wisdom, advice, or simple kindness that they are dishing out, those of us who are receiving their gifts are forever changed by the experience.  I am a better person / writer / friend for having known Joe.  I want to fill that empty space inside me with something, and this is perfect . . .

Joe was a runner.  The morning of the day he died, he went for a run.  He announced to his wife, "I had a great run."  And judging by the comments by so many of his former students on the Facebook announcement, he certainly did. 

The End of the Marathon

Here I come now
this feast of oxygen
the end of the marathon
the stadium in full view now
down the gravel runway
supporting the sun like an orange umbrella
the flags waving from its parapets
the TV dollies panning with me
the grinning cameramen
and the roar is starting, buoyant, incredible
all my blood is in my heart and limbs and lungs
my body rides free on a stream of blue air
at this speed
there is no strain to speak of
I stand still
and the earth moves
past me

Joe David Bellamy

Rest in peace, dear friend.  You mattered.