Mr. Fitzpatrick

An Ode

I got word this morning that my high school creative writing teacher passed away. This gentle man. This kind, gentle man. This kind, gentle man changed my life.

His voice was so quiet that sometimes you had to lean in to catch his words. He never raised it. He never shamed you with his criticism. Instead, he asked well-placed questions to make you think. What are you trying to say here? Is this the heart of your story?

When I think of Mr. Fitzpatrick, I think of sitting in the Mac lab at Canterbury in 1998, hunched over our duo tangs during the 10 minute free-write at the start of every class.

I think of learning to give feedback, swapping my pages with Andrew (who gave the best critiques) and Katherine (whose babies I still play with, whose penmanship was round in a way that filled every word with poetry) and Erika (who always had a line in her piece that took your breath away).

When I think of Mr. Fitzpatrick I feel calm. I feel the sense of possibility that would flood me as the words flowed from my pen. I think of realizing my place in the world through writing.

Thank you, Sir. Rest in peace.

From my grad yearbook