Last week my high school journalism teacher passed away. His name was Michael A. Lapointe and he was one month away from retirement. He had a heart attack on May 14 and he died five days later in relapse on his way back from the hospital.
Mr. Lapointe was a good teacher, but he never tried to be one of those Dead Poet’s Society wannabes. That’s what I respected the most about him; he knew who he was. Even though he was an idiot sometimes.
On many occasions he was accused of being sexist, racist and obnoxious. He told highly improbable stories about his life as a Rhodes Scholar and his involvement in the Korean War. In general, he was not well liked by his students.
But to the editors of our cynical old boys’ club of a high school newspaper, he was a good friend.
He never took any crap from the uptight, GPA-whoring, fast trackers on their way to the Ivy League. He grinned at the insanity of school district politics. And he was one of the few adults who truly appreciated how attractive the girls at my high school were.
Death is not something I know very well. I’m working through the stages of grief, knowing that Mr. Lapointe is the forerunner of more losses. Apparently, the people I grew up with came with expiration dates: my teachers, my parents — and even my best friend, Rio the Cat. Someday they’ll be gone.
Death is a lot like Thursday night at The Keg. It’s something that we all love to complain about, but deep down inside, we know it’s beyond our power to change. It’s depressing and it smells funny, but there’s really nowhere else to go.
I will miss Mr. Lapointe. He once told me that I had the intelligence of a CEO and the maturity of a third grader. I’ve always tried to live up to that statement.
I think the hardest part of letting go is the realization that the past is irreplaceable. We’ll never find our unforgettable childhood teachers again. A sad thing takes place in the college lecture hall — the teacher disappears. In its place is the professor, a distant and unapproachable source of authority. The relationship is more repressed and professional. As a result, something indefinable is lost.
That familiarity is not only lost in the classroom; it’s missing in every aspect of Northwestern life. Why do we have to be so uptight and professional about everything we do? Even enjoying a drunken Saturday night grope fest is something of an ordeal.
If there is only one thing I’ve learned this quarter, it’s that we shouldn’t take ourselves so seriously. The stress we subject ourselves to is rarely worth the trouble and heartache. Life is too short.
I hope that Mr. Lapointe has found some kind of heaven, that he’s drinking a cold beer and watching half-naked sorority angels lather each other in chocolate pudding.
Tony Evans is a Weinberg sophomore. He can be reached at [email protected].
