What I Learned in Room 11: Memories Of An Educator, A Mentor, And A Friend

As a new school year begins…

…. in my 14^th as a high school counselor…

…I think of people whose encouragement led me to this place.

And none can claim a more prominent spot than Tom Gerencher.

In 1979-80, Tom taught American Literature Honors at St. Joseph’s High School in South Bend, Indiana. He allowed us to call him “Tom” if we were so inclined.

I was not.

As a junior transferring from the metropolis of Chicago, 90 miles away, to this town where it felt like everyone had known one another for years? I was tongue-tied.

Tom noticed.

The first period of day one, he asked us to come up front to talk for a minute or two about whatever was on our minds. He picked me to go first. I babbled about my philosophy on grading (following up what he had talked about with us).

I sat down. Convinced I had proved myself to be the odd new kid. At lunch, I sat alone in the cafeteria.

But not for long.

An American Lit classmate told me to join him.ied

Within minutes, I met four guys who – {future post alert} – would become my closest friends for years.

Mr. G. was the kind of teacher who gave you the home phone number for him and his wife so you could call in an emergency. I could not imagine doing so. Still, I found the gesture sweet.{

He was demanding. If you were caught cheating, you could fail the course.

His tests were notorious, and the reading schedule like nothing I’d ever faced. At that time, the College Board’s Advanced Placement courses were not nearly as commonplace and St. Joe didn’t offer them.

They didn’t need to. Excelling in Honors English at St. Joe more than prepared you for college work.

I earned a B in Mr. G’s class the first three quarters and pushed – until I earned an A in quarter four.

It wasn’t enough for an A for the year, but I felt proud anyway.

More important than the grade, or even the sense of satisfaction from the recognition of hard work, came the camaraderie we built – among one another, and with Mr. G.

We might have been exhausted, but we had a lot of fun.

More than one might expect of 16-year-olds reading Daisy Miller, Billy Budd, and Emerson, Thoreau, Whitman and Dickinson.

Part of that joy was in the way Mr. G incorporated students’ work in Room 11.

Posters, projects and paintings from years gone by attested to previous pursuers of classic literature. You felt, in a real way, you were becoming part of a larger body of knowledge.

I knew senior year that, even though I had to take British Literature Honors with another teacher, I wanted more from Mr. G.

He taught the spring semester Media elective. I already was thinking about a college major in journalism, so why not take it? I didn’t know what I was getting into. And that was a great thing.

Yes, there was a unit on Journalism – although St. Joe offered a fall Journalism elective that I’d taken. But Media covered so much more – advertising, TV, radio and, yes, rock music. Nothing was more engaging than heading downstairs to Room 11 and wondering what song might jolt you.

Eddie Cochran’s “Summertime Blues”?

Barry McGuire’s “Eve of Destruction”?

Simon and Garfunkel’s “Sounds of Silence”?

Any of a whole host of Beatles songs?

You might think it would be a cakewalk to take a class where, for minutes at a time, we sat and listened to Mr. G’s vintage vinyl.

Not so:

We took almost as many notes about Elvis, folk music, the British Invasion, the California sound, and protest music as we did the previous year about Steinbeck et al.

For extra credit, Mr. G. allowed us to keep a journal in which we could write about whatever was on our minds. We turned them in weekly, and he would return them with comments and responses to questions we asked. It created a “safe space” decades before the phrase entered the lexicon.

Long after I graduated and entered the newsroom, I kept in touch with Mr. G.

In 1997, I visited St. Joe on an October Monday as the news reported on the plane crash that killed John Denver.

I made my way down the stairs to Room 11, where I could hear Mr. G. playing a Denver song. I stood outside, as he explained to the class that Denver wasn’t considered cool by a large segment of the public but his sincere voice and persona registered with many.

I felt a lump in my throat. I decided against disrupting the moment, and the class, by popping in.

Instead, I sent Mr. G. a note, telling him how much I appreciated the way he handled that.

He replied with a thoughtful holiday postcard that ended with “P.S., Keep John Denver in your prayers, too.”

In 2006, on Aug. 14, Mr. G. died of a sudden heart attack on the track at St. Joe High. He was 60.

Generations of his students mourned him, and I wrote a reflection that ran in my former newspaper, The South Bend Tribune.

When I visited South Bend a few years back, I made sure to visit his and his wife’s gravesites.

Last week, on Aug. 14, a classmate posted a reminder on social media. I realized that, within a few days, I would turn 61, a birthday Mr. G. never got the chance to celebrate.

What is it that makes someone a mentor? It’s more than just charisma, or intelligence, or excellence.

What Mr. G. – maybe, now, I can finally call him “Tom” – showed us over and over was heart. That willingness to be fully himself was what earned my undying respect.