A Teacher Who I Really Admired

Mr. Frank Sullivan was my English teacher in both 9^th and 12^th grades in high school. He was strict, he was funny, he was smart and he was encouraging when he wanted to be. He was also a gay man-the first gay man I ever encountered. I owe my writing career to Mr. Sullivan, which is interesting because I was terrified of him at first.

As an assignment once, he had us read the first Sherlock Holmes story I ever read in my life. It was called The Adventure of the Dying Detective. To get us to pay attention to detail, he gave us pen and paper and instructed us to draw Holmes' and Watson's sitting room at 221B Baker Street. He asked us to place the dining table, Holmes' cloak and deerstalker, the famous Persian slipper in which Holmes kept his tobacco and Watson's medical bag, among other things, in their proper place in the room. After we finished drawing, he made us reread the story and then draw the sitting room again. There was, as he speculated, a big difference between the first and second sketches.

I say he "made" us write, and "made" us read because no one would really do it at that age (in America) unless we were coerced. I can't remember what he would do to students who didn't comply. But I think it was something pretty bad, though. Luckily, I wasn't one of them.

I was 14 when I read my first Sherlock Holmes story. By the time I was 16, I had read the entire "Canon"-56 short stories and four novels. Mr. Sullivan never knew I read them.

I remember Mr. Sullivan jumping on and off his desk in the classroom, and alternately playing the parts of Romeo and Juliet when we started the play. I don't exactly know what his point was for that lesson, but I sure do remember how funny it was.

I got the ultimate compliment from him in 9^th grade. I wrote an essay on something-I don't remember what-and he wrote a comment above one of my sentences. Again, I can't recall the sentence, but I remember the comment: "I doubt whether any of my seniors (12 graders) could have handled this sentence as well as you have."

Mr. Sullivan didn't hand out compliments often. But with his encouragement, I entered and won my first writing contest during the year I was in his class.

I never intended to write for a career. But after a few mundane jobs, I did turn to freelance writing. I started out with small local papers and climbed my way up to national publications like The Boston Globe, The Washington Post and, ultimately, Cosmopolitan. I thought about getting in touch with Mr. Sullivan during the time of my small writing achievements. But I thought I would wait until I really made it.

So one day, I finally did it. I wrote a long letter, thanking him for his disciplined instruction, his inspiration and encouragement. I sent along a copy of an article that came out in one of my "trophy" publications. But I never heard back. He was dead--from Alzheimer's disease.

I wish I had thanked him a lot sooner. But I didn't get to. So I want to thank him now. I think Mr. Sullivan would have been proud of me for taking the CELTA-with the desire to teach English, as he did so many years ago. I hope I'm as good as he was.