In Los Angeles, teachers went on strike this week. There is no doubt that the teachers of our nation are underpaid and overstressed. It would be easy to dispassionately blog about the harsh realities of our nation’s education system. Instead I want to talk about the teacher that set a course for my life. Indeed, this blog would not be possible without the two years of high school English I spent in his classroom.
His name was Ron Rogerson. To me he was simply Mr. Rogerson. He was my sophomore teacher in Superior English. When my senior year rolled around, he had switched to senior Superior English. After learning that, there was no question of taking AP English. How could I pass up another year of this extraordinary teacher?
I always loved to read but Mr. Rogerson gave me a precious gift. He opened up the world of language to me. He taught me to write. He taught me that a good story is more than plot. A good story says what it needs to say with neither paucity or excess. A good story shows instead of simply telling. A good story understands that proper grammar exists not for pickiness but for clarity.
I no longer remember which year was American literature and which was English literature. What I remember is Chaucer, Fitzgerald, Shakespeare, White and so many more. I read the poetry of Elliot, Whitman, Frost, Keats, Shakespeare, Dickinson and more. I read Tolstoy, Orwell and Golding.
Mr. Rogerson taught me to enjoy the story regardless of the ending. The journey of a story, regardless of the medium, is the point of it all. A well created character becomes a companion you never lose.
In all honesty, I hated school. I didn’t have many friends and my relationships with most of my teachers was adversarial. My sophomore year of high school was not a sudden epiphany. I still hated school but for the first time I had a class I looked forward to. It was the first class where the work felt worth the effort.
I wish I could thank Mr. Rogerson. I wish I could tell him that nearly 40 years later I still think and talk about him. I still remember so much of what he taught me. I still love poetry and drama. The humor of Chaucer shaped my snark. The absolute beauty of Tolstoy still leaves me breathless.
I learned many years later that Mr. Rogerson committed suicide. He was seen in a gay bar and knew his teaching career was over. The world lost a great teacher because of narrow mindedness.
For those that say print is dead, it may be but stories continue. The medium doesn’t matter. A book isn’t defined by its form. It’s defined by characters expressed in language. Regardless of where it is written or how it is spoken, language creates definition in our life.
Wherever your soul resides, thank you, Mr. Rogerson.