You were once
curious—well, you were always curious about human behavior, weren’t you?—about
why I addressed people—colleagues and students alike—as “my friend.” I told you
the habit came from a conversation I had with my daughter about how we as
teachers constantly gender-identify our students without meaning to. (“Good
morning, ladies and gentlemen.” “Simmer down, boys and girls.” “Sit down, young
man/young lady!”) While my daughter laughingly suggested we begin referring to
them instead as “assholes and angels,” I chose to use a more subtle term. Ever
after that, you greeted me in the halls, on the phone, across the parking lot
like this: “Hello, my friend!” with your signature laugh. Perfect. (Shout out to our mutual friend and dynamic colleague Rob, who hailed me at your memorial service yesterday with, "Hey, buddy, you okay?", his own signature greeting.)
Our conversations about gender identity and how we should conduct ourselves toward everyone in our society, including our students, continued for years, on and off. In the last month that I taught, two weeks before my birthday, you came to my room with a gift. “I didn’t know if I would see you this summer for your birthday, so I’m giving you this now.” The gift: Two coloring books (to keep me occupied during retirement). One was titled “Coloring Book for Boys,” the other, “Coloring Book for Girls.” We laughed and laughed over this, and I told you I had never felt more seen.
And birthdays. Our birthdays. Oh, Pish, such a funny guy! You were actually born on March 15th. But you told everyone your birthday was the 17th—St. Patrick’s Day. It should have been! Your Irish mother would have been so proud! (Thus your first name, Sean.) But you couldn’t escape your Italian ancestry with a last name like Piscioneri and your abiding love of bread and pasta. My birthday is a holiday, too, but even if it wasn’t, I know you would have remembered it. Hell, Pish, you remembered a lot of your students’ birthdays!
What was it Ben Hoyle said to me at your memorial service? “He made every person feel special and seen,” or something to that effect. Indeed you did. Anyone who ever shared a restaurant meal with you saw that in the way you acknowledged the wait staff with kindness and care, always tipping big, always saying thank you, always directly addressing a server by looking that person in the face and smiling. Classy, Pish, classy.
Thank you for introducing me to your dad. I loved his poetry, his humble, authentic persona. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. You were so like him in all the best ways. Your mother was gracious and courteous and kind, and again, I could always find those traits in you as well.
Thank you for taking over where I left off with so many young people who needed extra care. Some of them were knuckleheads, but you loved them as much as I did for their sweet hearts (even though they tried desperately to hide them). Some of them were souls that wandered, looking for acceptance, and you took them under your wing and made them see how powerful and extraordinary they were. Did you see all those kids at your memorial service yesterday? I know you did.
Thank you one more time for teaching Maslow’s Hierarchy of Universal Needs. In our last phone conversation, we talked about it again, how beneficial it would have been had we each been taught this basic psychological and physiological structure before we entered high school. My students learned Maslow, then I passed them on to you and their understanding of it deepened. How fortunate we were, at Upland High School, to have all those amazing kiddos that we shared! How very, very lucky those kids were to have a teacher who was their friend and mentor and who cared about them going forward, not just for the year they were in your class.
Bravo, Pish. You left an indelible mark on the lives of countless young folks. You brightened my life, always making me laugh when we talked or got together. You cared for your mom when she needed you the most. You honored your father and his legacy in the town where you grew up. You respected your colleagues, even when you disagreed with them. You were a hard-working, deeply caring friend. Damn, I’m going to miss you so much.
Rest easy now, my friend. I have faith that you are reunited with your mom and dad, and that you are still looking out for all the students we shared and loved. Keep that up, little brother, until I see you again and we once again collaborate in caring for them.
