We called him “Sir.”  

It wasn’t out of fear; it was impossible to fear someone who looked so cheerful and optimistic. It wasn't even out of respect, though we did respect him.  

It came from love. 

The name was not randomly chosen, of course. The movie To Sir, With Love, though two years old, was still fresh in all our minds. Its tale of an inspirational teacher who tames a bunch of rough, overly energetic, undisciplined kids offered obvious parallels to the teacher it is still difficult for me to call “Tom” and the strange assortment of kids that gravitated to the high school drama club that he led. Not that we were that tough, but we were pretty rambunctious. And we started out undisciplined. 

He deftly managed a menagerie of high schoolers interested in dramatics, not all of which were on stage. He allowed us to goof off, sometimes, and he could share a laugh. He knew how to break the tension with that funny Oliver Hardy thing he did with his tie and with his elastic face. But when it came time to work, he made us work, and, if necessary, redo and redo and redo the same scene until we got it right.  

When he gave notes after a rehearsal, he played us like a virtuoso, doling out praise and direction in a carefully structured solo that boosted confidence and gave us our marching orders. 

Before him, the school did maybe one play a year. It seemed to always be Our Town, and nobody went to see it. 

Then this hippie-looking guy (look at that hair! he has a beard!) came in, and everything changed. He didn’t do it trying to be the next Tyrone Guthrie. He did it by making the theater fun and interesting, for both we theater types and the audience. 

He began with a startling Dracula that jolted the audience out of their seats and made it clear that we weren't in “our town” anymore. He followed with You Can’t Take It With You, a classic comedy with several touches of zany that suited the Kaufman and Hart screenplay. Again, audiences came. Suddenly, the drama program had buzz. 

Next year, he stunned us by saying, we’d do three shows. To our delight, we did. He planned a clever season, opening with the gloomy, thought-provoking After the Rain; followed by a sprightly Once Upon a Mattres; and capped by three one-acts, penned by Ionesco, Shaw, and Stoppard that were fun but hardly frivolous. 

Other shows followed, and the school’s theater arts program became a (the?) standout program in the city.

After a few years, alas, the school changed and the atmosphere became more unpleasant. At the same time, a new principal tried to rein him in. Frustrated by these changes, he decided to leave, and the magic was over. 

While he was there, though, he created a special place.  

He treated everyone, the stars, the supporting cast, the stage crew, and the ticketing and promotion people the same—like people who had something special to offer. He listened to suggestions and considered them. He didn’t always buy them, but everyone was given a hearing. You know the obnoxious Little League coach who only plays certain kids all the time? There was none of that. He formed us into a repertory company, giving stars in one show a smaller part in the next and giving opportunities to kids who dreamed but didn't really think they'd get it. And they nailed the part every time. He even allowed some kids to experiment with directing one-acts and writing original plays.  

He gave us wings. 

He also opened us to the larger world of the theater outside. He enrolled the school’s drama club in the International Thespian Society, a group of drama programs across the country. We took field trips to see other schools’ shows, measuring ourselves, getting ideas. We took part in workshops, learning more about the stage.

We started ushering at the performances put on by a local university theater program, a quite accomplished one. We got to see top-flight plays in strong productions. The experience inspired some kids to get their MFAs in acting after they graduated. 

Most wonderful of all was the community he fostered. For many of us, the theater became our home—the place where we were comfortable, where we felt connected, where we were accepted even if we were nerdy. High school was transformed from a drudgery to a magical experience. A place to want to be; a bunch of nuts to want to be with. 

He did that. 

And I’m sure I’m not the only one to feel that way, because four years ago, somebody had the brilliant idea of taking advantage of a return trip he was making to the city: “Let’s have a reunion!” Calls and e-mails went out, and plans were made. One night, scores of people from several years of the program gathered, many coming from out of state. It was a great opportunity to see old friends. More than that, though, it was a chance to say “Thank you.”  

Happy birthday, Sir, and thanks again.