Being a teacher is strange.
I suppose much of life is. But being a teacher is strange in specific ways.
Right now I'm thinking about the profound and lasting effect a teacher can have, even if we too rarely let them know.
I owe Keith Harrison a debt.
Keith is gone. I can't say thank you to his face, and I never could.
I shouldn't be surprised. I met Keith at a time when I was young and insecure and beaten down by high school and the anxieties of adolescence. I was just starting my university and adult life. I was taking calculus and drawing and anthropology and Keith's English course.
I was trying to figure out who I was without any idea what the trajectory of my life might be. My childish dreams of professional hockey player and/or space-ninja were gone. Like a poorly trained space-ninja I was adrift.
I met Keith at a point when his kindness and his time were a balm for my ego and for all my childhood baggage. He stood before me in class with presence and calmness and competency. He was all the things I wanted to be and wasn't. I was caught up in constant catharsis. I listened to too much Tool and Korn and Ministry and I was angry all the time for no particular reason. In contrast, Keith stood before me when I visited him outside of class with an undeniable presence and interest and expertise in life and learning and communication.
I was not good at any of those.
Plus, Keith was a writer. And I didn't know much, but I knew I liked to pour myself into words. I didn't have the craft. I still can't compare myself to Keith as a writer. I doubt I ever will. But, writing seemed like a place to articulate things I was too shit scared to say to anyone else. And he was one of the first people I showed my clumsy attempts at poetry to. He didn't laugh. He didn't praise total garbage. He read my words carefully and picked out the strengths and gave me ideas to help with the weaknesses.
Keith showed me possibilities.
Thankfully, I never became a poet. I still dabble in awful, drunken poetic bursts. But I don't have the discipline or desire to really pursue it. Yet, poetry gave me insight into my inner life that I never had before. Keith helped me realize this.
He became one of my first guides. He was a sensei. He was one who had gone before.
Looking back I have no doubt Keith struggled with making his lived experience and intellectual ability commensurate. Keith had an extraordinary intellect. It was his most predominant feature. That, and the eyebrows.
I think a lot of university instructors struggle with this disconnect between their scholarly abilities and their practical life skills. The best of us find connection and closure and see every student as part of our journey of acceptance. The worst of us find disconnection and discontent and see too many students as a challenging reminder of past pains.
Keith was the best of us.
He was central to my journey of acceptance. He let me discover who I was, and who I might become.
And I never told him.
I was young and scared and rarely present. I lived in a world of fantastical possibilities and near delusion. In the face to face conversations of importance I usually said, "Oh, okay".
I've heard those same words, or similar, a hundred times in my office or in a quick conversation after class. I always try to remind myself that the student isn't necessarily dismissing me, or ignoring what I say. I am reminded that my words carry weight across time, not just in the space we are in.
Thank you Keith.
Thank you for being present and brilliant and kind and competent and caring and everything I aspire to be.
Thank you.
You encouraged me when I was vulnerable and pushed me when I was coasting and always showed me what I could be.
I wish I could have said this to your face, but that space has been created on this page in no small part because of you.
Thank you Keith, for now, for then and forever.
