Diary of a Retiring Teacher

Keith Kester   I'm pretty sure Keith Kester turned 12 when he started teaching at Central Catholic. I still remember, in 1981, a skinny boy in a too-big tie proudly carting a brand new briefcase. The shiny briefcase is an emblem of professionalism, and Kester - just a tiny bit intimidated by the hundreds of sweaty, hormonal adolescents pouring into his classroom - holds his students to strict accountability. "If I hear any of you talking," he announces that first day in a quaking voice, "you will write one hundred sentences after school." Poor kid, I remember thinking. I am only three years his senior but already feel eons older. I give him a semester. Tops. Before the end of the year, however, Mr. Kester is noticeably relaxed. He ditches the briefcase along with the tie, and by Christmas he's enthralling kids with stories of the most fascinating hometown in America - Cambridge, Nebraska. Population 1038. Cambridge, according to Kester, boasts the most talen

The boys in senior English class, top row from left: Jack Steenson, Gabe Guerrero, Victor Castellanos, Jack Hulinsky, Sam Mueller, Angel Sotelo, Zenon Sack, Hunter Borges. Bottom row from left: Florian Leicht, Damian Glass, Nico Kiewald I looked up from taking roll the other day and noticed Zenon Sack and Jack Hulinsky. I can't say what it was about those boys that suddenly filled me with happiness.  Maybe it was the way they laughed and talked easily as old friends do. Or maybe it was simply the way they enjoyed each other so much. I only know that on a cold, dreary morning with biting March winds, those two boys made me happy.  John and I are always amazed at the way our Central Catholic kids form such enduring friendships. Many of them remain friends the rest of their days. They consistently call, text, message, take trips and nurture each other through divorce, sickness and death. It's when we meet again at, God forbid, funerals of parents or classmates, that we see how imp

Almost three weeks ago, our son's spouse Savanna lost a young sibling to suicide.  John and I drove immediately to Denver to be with Kenny and Savanna. This last weekend I drove back again for the funeral service. To make matters even more complicated, Savanna's sibling Blake was a young trans person. In spite of enormous support, Blake fought depression and finally succumbed to it.  I won't say it's easy for an old Catholic like me to wrap my mind around the issue of transgenderism. My good son Kenny, who is so tender and attentive to Savanna, reminded me again and again to use the proper pronouns - an exercise at which I failed miserably. Not only am I old, but I'm an English teacher. Switching pronouns doesn't come easily, but I'm trying. What was abundantly clear, however, was that Blake was a sweet and compassionate young genius who renovated school busses and even large vans into spaces of residential beauty. Blake was mourned by family and friends ali