For Z,

“The only Philosophy I need is the Philosophy of Jesus Christ and his Love,” was what you wrote on your Philosophy final when asked, “What was Philosophy to you?” I do not remember many final remarks from the thousands of students I have had in class, but I remembered yours. 

Now I’m not going to pretend you and I were particularly close, and in fact, it sort of became a shtick to ‘entertain’ the class with our banter. You challenged me relentlessly, which is one of the reasons I liked having you in class.

In order to clarify beliefs and values when confronted with differing perspectives in Philosophy, I presented a plethora of views. You asked questions and I think you would admit that you liked to try and rattle me a little. Yes, I did greatly appreciate it. I mean, how else can I get better?

At school, you literally sat front and center at a wobbly table in our lil old corner class room, flanked by two friends. Me facing you all, sitting in my teacher chair. And with my vantage point, I could tell if and when I said something you did not agree with. I could tell because you would get this glimmered look in your eyes, slightly grin your dimpled cheeks, and usually whisper something to your friend before I’d say something like, “anything you want to add Z?” The class would laugh and we would commence our debate. 

I believe the whole class benefitted and unitedly bonded in oppositions. You changed class dynamics by being dynamically you. And although you may have been a bit of a heckler (wink), you were respectful, funny, and you graciously held your convictions. Your mom and dad would be proud, even when not watching (right?).

Privately, it was when you and I talked before or after school that I will remember best. You would come in to get make-up work prior to missing class, usually due to golf.  Conscientiously, you made sure to get clarification on all assignments you submitted. 

That was when I witnessed a vulnerability in you I suspect is rare (at least for this teacher). Both of us were less guarded, less masked, and we authentically talked. We talked about your volunteer work, family, friends, and girls (just a little). I remember one time your voice got shaky when talking about the kind of man you wanted to be. Not the successful one we all saw you were, but the ‘man’. The husband.  You talked about the kind of family you wanted to have. The kind of father you wanted to be. I think we both got a bit emotional that day, if only for a moment, and the rest of the conversation will forever remain between you and I. 

Beyond your charisma, talent, dimples, hair, and infectious humor, I will remember your convictions, your deep sensitivity and your love. 

It might sound weird and perhaps selfish to say this, but you gave me a gift. It gives me peace to know you had peace. You knew who you were, what you wanted, the kind of man you wanted to be and that the only philosophy in life you needed was the Love of Jesus Christ. 

You died doing what you loved. You died knowing you were loved. That is a gift. 

As I am familiar with the grieving process, the one thing I know to magnify, are the memories. The whole ones, not just the good ones. The ones that do not make the obituaries. The laughter-through-tears stories. The sometimes not-so-flattering stories. Those are the reminiscences I cherish; even if one is a not-so flattering story that includes me. 

You taught me lessons of love, passion, conviction and loyalty.  Lessons I may not fully grasp, but can revere nonetheless. Thank you Z for upholding your values. You were, are, a model in philosophy. Peace be with you Z. 

Affectionally,

Ms. Newson