“Let
me ask you a question Mike.” Mr. Frenz pushed back from his desk and leaned
back in his chair.
“Do
you think that the media produces behavior, or do you think the media merely
reflects behavior?”
That
was classic Mr. Frenz. He talked about a great many things not specifically
germane to music. He didn’t treat you like you were merely a child; he didn’t
talk to you like you were merely a child; he expressed genuine interest in you
as a person. I had no other adults in my life that were like that. His approach
to me was respectful and from a position of authority, but at the same time he
found ways to relate to me on levels that were both validating and
non-threatening. I had the sense that when he looked at me, when he looked at
my peers, that he could see more than what we were. He was able to see the
people we could be based on our character and potential. And in some remarkable
way he spoke to that potential in us, he motivated that nascent force within us
to stir and drive us forward.
After
a few moments, I noticed that he was actually interested in what I had to say.
He waited for me to reply. That was something I noticed.
“I
guess, really the media is just reflecting behavior. Reading a violent book
doesn’t make you violent or watching a violent movie doesn’t make you go out
and shoot somebody.”
“I
think you are exactly right.”
He
moved the mouse of his new Macintosh Plus computer off to the side, picked up
his coffee cup and paused. He wore a tie with an always perfect Full Windsor
knot. He dressed meticulously, professionally, but he didn't seem vain about it
to me. In his pocket, there was usually a fountain pen that he used to write
music on pages of staff paper always near him. His handwriting was like his
speech, it was clean and strong but not flowery. His desk was sparse and clear
of clutter. In his office through the open door there was usually an aroma of
brewed coffee mixed with, valve oil, paper and fresh breeze and it drifted from
the office behind the large glass pane and out into the cavernous band room.
“If
you need a ride to practice, just call me, ok? I live up the road from your mom
and dad. I like the split-rail fence they put up in your front yard.[1]”
“Thanks,
I will.” I was finding it difficult to control my emotions at this point and I
knew that he could sense that.
“It’s
ok Mike. Just call, alright?”
Mr.
Frenz knew when he saw a kid that was struggling. He had the instincts to understand pain. He literally carried the scars from being
stabbed twice by students in his previous teaching assignments. He was equipped to recognize someone else who
carried hidden wounds.
“I
will.” I never did. I was not able to
trust anyone at this point in my life; my wounds were just too deep to conduct an
experiment in faith. As is the case with
many other victims of child sex abuse, it isn’t until adulthood that many of us
are able to deal with this psychological and emotional trauma. In my case, I was in my late 30’s before I
could begin to talk about this with anyone; I was a father of two boys before I
could confront my abuser. Until then, I
never told anyone. Not teachers, school
counsellors, trusted friends, not even my girlfriend. No one.
That’s one insidious aspect of this kind of child abuse – the abuser
uses the victim’s sense of guilt and shame to cover their abuse in secrecy. My
experience is, unfortunately, typical of abused children. I was manipulated into silence. And in my case, it was a silence that I
maintained for over thirty years.
I
got up and left his office that day in the late Spring of 1986 at the end my
freshman year. He knew about my poor grades. He was right to assume that I was
about to walk into some difficult days at home. He had probably noticed that my
parents didn’t come to any of my shows or practices and if he could keep me
coming to band by giving me a ride, he was very willing to do that.
I
had learned to play the mellophone that year. I didn’t know there was even such
a thing as that musical instrument before he put it in my hands. I had traveled
to different cities, different states and had been welcomed into a musical
world of beauty, artistry, integrity – a world that I didn’t know existed
before I was in the midst of it, experiencing it.
On
more than one occasion that summer my telephone would ring at home and it would
be Mr. Frenz, calling to check on me, letting me know that he was there for me,
and he hadn’t forgotten about me. That was something else that I noticed about
him, he was always ‘open.’ In all those years at Marlington, I never remember
his office door being closed. I think that his office door was like his heart,
it was always open for any of us.
[1] My parents moved From
North Union to Beechwood Ave in the summer of 1985. This placed me in the Marlington School
District. We moved back to North Union a
year later and I remained at Marlington to finish high school.
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