My Mentor

I used to get to school early and walk down the empty hallway to the band room. The room was large and spacious, cluttered with chairs and music stands. Wooden locked lined the walls, scratched and battered. Names, dates and random quotes were etched in the faces. Years of history had been painted on by past occupants. The room is filled with memories for me – happy fun memories with my friends and band director. But the room also held a dark secret about the man who worked there for fifteen years.

I think he was the youngest oldest teacher I’ve ever seen. Though in his late fifties, he was highly in tune with our culture, the culture of Ally McBeal and Nirvana. Constantly making wise-cracks, he made you forget he was old enough to be your father. The music wing was his kingdom and we were his subjects. He could make us do just about anything. No matter the time of day or how stressed he was he always looked together. His tie was tight up to his neck, pants strictly irons and his dark hair, highlighted with silver, was always perfect. He was first to arrive in the morning and last to leave at night. His presence made the music wing a safe haven for us. The principals never came down there and there were no hall monitors, demanding a bathroom pass. Even when he knew I was skipping, he never sent me to class. I used to spend my math period, propped up against the concert wall, munching on cafeteria fries and talking with friends.

A rarity among teachers, he truly enjoyed teaching. Mixed in with his jokes and jibes, I actually learned something. But his classes weren’t easy. He demanded that we practice and could tell when we didn’t. His high expectations forced us to excel in whatever they did. Our top band could rival most college bands and ever our low bands was good by high school standards. Although he sometimes acted like a dictator, he was willing to listen to our ideas and take the time to explain his decision-making process. Our music folders were packed with different levels of music, but he always demanded the best out of us. He worked hard and asked that we work just as hard. Only wanting the best, he was a tough teacher and sometimes hard to please.

He was one of the best conductors I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. His strong body kept tight rhythms and with just a wave of his hand, we would respond. He yelled a lot, sometimes I think too much. He didn’t let you forget he was in charge and ran a tight classroom. Music wasn’t just noise or marks on a page. It was a story or an expression of emotion for him. He made sure everyone knew what it was we were playing. It was important to him that the audience understood what the music was about, and so he would makes sure we knew as well. Technically, he demanded perfection and was constantly challenging everyone. He found a way to challenge the weakest and strongest player at the same time.

Not everyone liked him. Some thought he was mean or too tough. He yelled a lot, sometimes I think too much. He didn’t let us forget he was in charge and ran a tight classroom. But if we put in the effort, he would put in the time. Music class to him was not an easy grade. You couldn’t just slip through his class to fulfill your credit requirement. He made us work and work hard.

He and my father hit it off splendidly. They both enjoyed Scotch and shared a sense of humor that included picking on me. He and his young wife would come over often for dinner parties with my parents. I remember one time; I was practicing my English horn during such a party. He walked down to my practice room and slurring his words, told me I was destined for great things and should be going to a conservatory instead of the Christian liberal arts college I had decided on. I was making one of the biggest mistakes in my life, according to him. The next day in school, he pulled me aside and apologized for being so abrupt. He told me although he did believe what he said; he just wanted me to be happy. He wrote me a glowing recommendation for a West Point competition. I still have a copy of the letter in my memory box.

He was one of the few teachers who made a huge impact on my life. He constantly challenged and pushed me to do better and be better. Practicing tough love, he pushed and poked me to where I was on graduation day. But if needed, he could show kind support. I was going through a hard time and rather than belittle me, he offered a kind ear and supportive words. He demanded a lot, not just of me but of everyone else.

Yet beneath all these things that the world saw, he was hiding a dark secret. He was involved with a student, a sophomore female student. She was in love and he was exploiting her. Evidently, this was not the first time, either. Behind him, he was leaving a trail of amazing musicians and psychologically damaged girls. He was arrested the last month of my senior year and resigned shortly after that. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since then, though his trial was publicized. When he was released from jail, he took a job as a car salesman in Albany. His teaching license was revoked and he is registered sex offender.

I look back on the four years I was his student and consider myself lucky. He had never tried anything with me. But nonetheless, my mentor, my idol was gone – destroyed and completely blackened. He had been a master at compartmentalizing, showing only what needed to be shown at that moment. He had only shown me his good side, his musical and teaching side. And I haven’t looked deeper. He was two different people, a teacher mentor and an abusing betrayer.
?
The king of all excuses?

I trusted you. I trusted in you.

This time you’re gonna get it
All the things that you have done are coming back to you
This time you’re gonna feel it
Your conscience slowly suffocating you
In time you will regret it
Say goodbye to all the things you’ve gotten used to
Life will find a way to bring destruction to you
Life will find a way to bring destruction to you

You’ve lied so much you think it’s true
Do you know what the truth is?
How does someone get to be like you?
The king of all excuses?

Everything must come full circle
It kills me that I feel this hurtful
I wonder what your children think of you,
The king of all excuses.

King of All Excuses ~ Staind