This weekend there will be a memorial service for the headmaster of my high school, on campus, as part of the alumni weekend. I will not be attending, for various reasons. If I was on campus this weekend, I’d certainly attend, from peer pressure as much as anything else, but it would feel odd to me. I don’t like funerals very much, and I never really knew this man very well to begin with.
The fact that I never knew him was a missed opportunity, or at least a regret. I’m not sure that I would have had any real chance to get to know him, but simply taking better advantage of the few opportunities when I might have interacted with him could have been very rewarding.
When I read his obituary, I realize that his life was, in many ways, my dream. The things he did, and the differences he was able to make in the school and the broader American educational system were the sort of things that I could fantasize myself looking back on with intense satisfaction, fulfillment, and pride, if things had worked out differently for me and I’d managed to find an academic post. It should be noted as an achievement of his school that in the three years I spent there, I went from having no particular ambition in life to desiring to become a teacher. In fact, my daydream goal was to return to my high school as a teacher–and I was not alone. Several of my classmates have confessed to having the same fantasy.
None of this was apparent at the time, of course. As a teenager, the headmaster was the symbol of authority and discipline, and authority and discipline are bitter enemies of teenage rebellion. As a newcomer to the school, I was impressionable and the disparaging or obscene nicknames the upperclassmen used consistently–it was very rare that, except in the presence of adults, anyone referred to him by his real name–made me think that perhaps he might be an awful person and that my best bet was to lay low and avoid any interaction with him. After all, unless you were in his class, or attended his teas (which required wearing a jacket and tie, which virtually guaranteed my absence), the only reason you were likely to have to interact with him personally were when he handed you your diploma during graduation, or if you were being kicked out.
What I knew about him I had learned from the school catalog, which had brief biographies for all of the masters, and a letter from the headmaster to the students (which was really meant for the parents and alumni) in the preface of the catalog, and his convocation addresses. I remember barely stifling a laugh when, during one address, as he was urging the students to branch out, to get involved in new things, and not just work on their grades (and grade grubbing), he used the metaphor of ‘workaholics’ in his prepared notes, but during delivery, the last instance of ‘workaholics’ was accidentally pronounced ‘alcoholics’. I don’t think anyone else noticed, except I did see some of masters perk up. Nobody else was paying enough attention.
I knew that he’d done something in the war that earned him a couple of medals, and I couldn’t ever remember seeing him blink. It seemed like his arms and legs were too long for his body, which gave him the sort of apparent clumsiness reminiscent of a gangly, awkward youth who had just gone through a growth spurt. He always seemed confident and alert, but he was never an attention seeker. I imagine that at a party, he’s the kind of person who would end up having an intense, hour-long, life-changing discussion about ‘The Golden Bough’ with someone while everyone else was getting drunk.
And then there’s this.
One evening, I attended a seminar given by some speaker on some subject–both long since gone from my memory–that he introduced. On the podium there was a pitcher of ice water and a few glasses, which the speaker could use to refresh his voice during the lecture.
The headmaster stood at the front of the stage, in front of the podium, looking out over the audience. It was a warm, humid day. Behind him, the pitcher was sweating. As he began his introduction of the speaker, it began to slide along the podium on the thin film of water that had accumulated on the table. Slowly at first, and then gradually gaining speed, it reached the edge, and fell to the floor.
You can imagine a lot of ways this story might end, and I want you take a moment to imagine them. It must have been something pretty good, because I still remember it, even though I’ve forgotten the name of the speaker and the subject of the talk. So let your imagination run for moment. See what you can come up with. Perhaps he was so startled by the crash of the pitcher that he jumped or fell off the stage. Perhaps the sound didn’t ruffle him at all and he continued on without skipping a beat. Perhaps he extemporized something incredibly witty about the incident and wove it seamlessly into his remarks. Perhaps he apologized for the absence of the pitcher to the speaker. Perhaps, after introducing the speaker, he ran across campus to the dining hall in order to get another pitcher of ice water for the speaker, sacrificing his dignity to be a good host.
Here’s what happened. I hope you won’t be disappointed.
After serving at the school for something approaching thirty years, the headmaster was so familiar and comfortable with his surroundings and his role that he appeared completely at ease. He had probably introduced a few hundred speakers by this point in his life. And yet he was still completely there and not just going through the motions on some sort of oratorical auto-pilot. He was in the moment. He was always in the moment.
As the pitcher began to move, it attracted the attention of the audience. He might have noticed that the eyes that had been watching him were now focused on something else. And when the pitcher tipped over the side, he might have heard the gasp (and the beginning of a laugh) came from the audience. However it happened, he was immediately aware that something was happening behind him.
Using some combination of the skills that had made him a squash star in college or earned him a Distinguished Flying Cross in the contested skies over Europe, he turned, lunged, and caught the pitcher before it hit the floor.
Rest in peace, Headmaster Bruce McClellan.
