Jun. 7, 2007 – Originally published by CNC, Inc. – Dateline: Wilmington

Remembering Mr. Sullivan And His Wonderful Hair

Teachers truly do make all the difference in a child’s life. A good teacher expands the mind, nurtures the spirit, and allows a child to really believe that almost anything is possible, if you try your hardest. Since it is almost the end of the school year, I looked back through my memory banks to see which teacher influenced me the most, and landed all the way back to fifth grade. The winner is Mr. Sullivan, and he influenced me not for the things he taught us, members of the fifth-grade class of Running Brook Elementary School, but for the way he taught us, and the emphasis he put on being who you are meant to be, and believing in it enough to pay a price for it.

First of all, Mr. Sullivan was cute — and I mean CUTE. It was the 70s, so wide ties, sideburns and hip hugger bellbottoms were in style, and Mr. Sullivan looked great wearing each of these. He was in his mid-20s, had long, flowing hair and a mustache, and kind of looked like a cross between Burt Reynolds and Tony Orlando (of “Tony Orlando and Dawn” fame). He always wore a shirt and tie, but to see him run down the hall after an errant child or to grab a phone call at the office was a treat for all of us little girls; that beautiful hair would stream out behind him, and he looked like a gazelle loping through those cramped little art-filled hallways. We would stare after him and then look at each other, eyes wide, and whisper, “Wow!” Then, we would write about him in our little diaries, which was a huge craze at the time.

You could ask Mr. Sullivan anything; how far away the moon was, what was a prime number, or who was he dating, if anyone. He handled questions honestly and with a grin, and loved the energy of children. He was the only teacher I recall who really enjoyed kids on their own merits; he would play ball with the kids at recess instead of taking advantage of Teacher Planning, he remembered the names of all your siblings, even the little ones at home, and you could reliably count on him to loan you lunch money if you forgot yours. There were some kids that he never asked for repayment from, either; sensing even lunch money was a hardship.

Mr. Sullivan liked to “teach outside the box.” He loved to use real life situations and photographs to spice up dry textbooks. He posed ethical questions, told us about his own childhood, and listened with empathy to any stumbling, nervous child he called upon. He told us to always keep an eye on our government, because it was supposed to really be ours. He gave his whole self, his whole personality, to his job.

Mr. Sullivan left our school due to his own ethics, his own sense of who he was, and what he could and could not tolerate. He was asked to cut his hair. We little girls shuddered at the thought of Mr. Sullivan without those streaming locks that were so much a part of him. He simply would not back down, the story goes, and so he said goodbye one spring day, squatting down to sit with a few of us, cross-legged and ever-available, on the rug. As tears filled our eyes and we made him hand-made cards and trinkets, he told us how much we meant to him, and how much we had taught him. Imagine — us teaching him.

And so, Mr. Sullivan strode out of our little lives forever, on his own terms, glorious hair still intact. I heard he went into refrigeration repair with a relative. But he taught us that even if you feel your hair says who you are, never back down. I remember it still. Thanks Mr. Sullivan, I hope you are happy and that it all worked out for you, wherever you are. And I remember what we little girls wrote in our ever-present diaries that day: “Those lucky refrigerators.”