For Carlo — Always that Voice

His atoms still collide with us in the school hallways

It was always the voice — The voice of the 800 hallway — The voice that still reverberates With wit, wisdom, and hilarious irrelevance.

It’s the tone, too, that echoes; the baritone pitch — Recreated too many times in too many catchphrases — Phrases that we’ve all refashioned since hearing the news — Dragging out the syllables and the flexed intonation, sarcastically muttering, “Have a nice day.” “Hello, ladies.” “Mr. Bowne, he’s a clown.”

Passing on some errand to guidance, I suddenly smirk for no reason — Other than the remembrance of the voice in 806.

I hesitate. I look as I pass 806, but the door is closed.

I didn’t cry, then. I move on with the recommendation letters, the change of grade forms, The make-up work, all with that voice echoing. His door was always open, figuratively too, wide open for the school, For the world to hear: the yawping, the ranting of our own crazed, bearded Huckleberry who refused to be civilized — The one who refreshingly delighted or unabashedly offended Our political and social sense and sensibility — The one who dared desensitize speech for humanity’s sake —

The one who spoke ‘truth to power’ while making us shake our heads, Giggling, oftentimes in hysterics, asking — “Can he say that?”

He was the verbal jackhammer and the hallway jester — A friend for all and one — (with the possible exception of administration.) I still hear the voice. Do we all still hear the voice if we were lucky enough to know him? The voice that screams— this is why we teach! This is why we’re here. This is why we continue to teach. This is the sound of the love of teaching — The love for our students.

Our colleagues, the maintenance crew, the kitchen staff, The voice of equal opportunity, the voice of the people That made our school vibrate. Why doesn’t it vibrate the way it used to?

The school family that’s blood and bone — Students and teachers, players and coaches — Not just some hackneyed slogan to persuade April voters.

I would always glance to room 806 to catch the man in action, A man always in action — but never so fast as to forgot Those who needed a door open, a reminder that it was payday, Then I would smile as I passed his door. Did I catch the tail end of the jest — the joke?

Maybe I would hear his students laugh. Maybe I would learn that — Beyond Smart Boards, and Power School, Photoshop, Computers, projectors, laptops, gadgets, and gizmos, Bells and whistles —

He made students feel loved and taught them what he knew. It wasn’t always about numbers and ledger sheets. It’s the stuff that lingers when the facts fade — The memories that sparkle until we die — The piece of him that will be in all of us in some immeasurable way — Perhaps not even evident.

It’s the ‘cult of personality’ that infects us, The zest for living, the smile, the voice, the concern — It’s as basic as every prophet knows — love — learn. It’s the voice mingled with all the other voices, Dissident and discordant — Joyous and harmonious — All always alive, if now, even in memory —

Always that voice.

Dedicated to Carlo Nicastro.

This poem originally appeared in the school newspaper where I am the advisor.

Thank you for reading!