My Teacher Is Gone But His Lessons Remain
When I found out a few weeks ago my lifelong mentor and friend had been hospitalized, I decided to write him a letter, explaining how important he was to my life. A few days passed, and writing the letter got lost to the busyness of life. On the morning I finally planned to write the letter, he died.
Upon learning of his death, I traveled through sharp self admonitions. Why did I wait to write that damn letter? I got busy with stupid things like laundry and house chores and left what was most important on my to-do list. I was ashamed and sad. Then I felt anger at myself. If he was that important to me, why didn’t I share my adoration and gratitude sooner? A few days later, my self-hatred softened to a sense of calm and peace. I was lucky. I had spent my most pivotal development time as a young woman in the presence of a teacher and man I deemed to be virtuous — a gift and blessing that would impact the rest of my life.
Do you have someone in your life who is virtuous? A person, who, when you came to them broken and doubtful, unsure and naive, they looked deeply into your eyes and listened to you without judgment or condescension? They strived to understand you better, not to rebuke or lecture you? They listened because they found you interesting and important and unique and one of a kind?
Dennis Hayes was this person for me. We met during a challenging four years studying Theatre and Drama and at the same time, completing an Honors Degree at the University of Toronto. Dennis was my first-year theatre instructor, with silver hair and piercing blue eyes. My classmates and I were all about 19 years old, stumbling through living on our own for the first time with the pressures of school and “being an adult” with a checking account full of student loans to burn. We could barely cook a meal with more than one ingredient, struggling with tremendous pressure to rise to the top of our program. We smoked endless cigarettes and asked questions that other adults might roll their eyes at, such as “Is God real?”, “How can I be less afraid of death?”, “What should I do with my life?” and “Why am I so lonely when people surround me?”
Dennis and his wife Dinny would say warmly, “Come over to the house.” I’d show up alongside a few of my closest fellow theatre classmates who had fast become my family. We were skinny from malnutrition, using cracked second-hand belts to hold up thrift store jeans. Dennis would pull us individually to the side and hand us a book based on what we had shown interest in or a struggle with. We’d sit around drinking coffee, and Dennis would listen to us; he’d share his observations of life, religion, theatre, art, death, friendship, addiction, and self-doubt. He never told us what to do or think, but always helped us think more deeply. To be okay not knowing. To trust the process of life.
Dennis was virtuous in ways that thousands of people have benefited from; students, friends, family, faculty, strangers. He had in-depth and insightful knowledge of the arts. He was moral, fair, funny, and wise. He encouraged us to be courageous and asked the same of himself. He let us cry when we faced adversity, and he never hid his hardships from us.
What was most memorable about Dennis was that he saw me. There was no way to pretend around Dennis; his sharp blue eyes would look right into your soul until the real you tumbled out, like an overstuffed closet. He didn’t want me to be perfect. He wanted me real. Raw. Vulnerable. Unapologetically me, in all my weird flawed ways.
I met Dennis in 1995, and we continued to communicate for 25 years, right up until he became sick with cancer. I’m disgusted with myself that I didn’t even know about his cancer and chemo. Since I left Canada in 2003, it’s hard to keep in touch with my Toronto friends. But this was no excuse. I should have written that letter ten years ago. I should have known he was sick.
From my relationship with Dennis Hayes, I know three things with certainty:
One, if you are lucky enough to have a virtuous person in your life (some people call this a teacher, mentor, hero, or guide), tell them today. Call them. Text them. Write them. It’s one small way to give back to them.
Two, I need to continue to support the Arts. Dennis was involved in the arts his entire life, and I have let this part of me slip away. There is nothing like sitting in a tiny darkened theatre as the lights come up or seeing art that brings tears to my eyes, or hearing music that makes my heart stop. According to a recent study on the Economic Impact of COVID- 19 on the Arts and Cultural Sector, the estimated total economic impact is $14.8 billion. When we look to the future, I fear many arts organizations won’t have survived the pandemic. I’m looking into how I can support the arts from detailed articles like this one.
Third, I need to be like Dennis when it comes to communication with my kids. At eight years old, my twins are on the cusp of the painful tween journey to self-expression, rebellion, disdain, and unhelpful criticism. Their hormones will flare, and my nighttime snuggles will be replaced with doors slammed in my face. I ache to be more like Dennis, listening with a kind, quiet smile, nodding, listening, watching, saying, “Tell me more.”
To all the virtuous people I have lost, I will never forget you. I’ll grieve your loss forever, and your unconditional love has made me the person I am today. Thanks for reminding me that I am enough. I’ll do my best to make you proud.
WRITTEN BY
Laura Mathis
From my post on Medium.com
https://lauramathis.medium.com/my-teacher-is-gone-but-his-lessons-remain-3bea58c7a849
