Bremen

My high school was, in general, a shithole. A poorly funded public high school in a town where the sub in suburban was not a noteworthy distinction. As you can imagine, fine arts funding was especially miniscule. We did not have classes in pottery or photography. Our “stage” was a platform in the school gym (what lovely acoustics!). Police officers (real ones) guarded us from exiting the building, under the auspice of protecting us from malicious intrusions. Bremen High School. What. A. Shithole.

But we did have one shining achievement: a course in TV Production.

The woman who taught TV Production was called Doc. I can remember neither her first or last name, but everyone in school called her Doc. She was the only human in that building to have earned a Ph.D. and no one would let her forget it.

I can’t find her on the internet, but I want Doc to know that I will soon have a Ph.D. as well. I want to have a cup of coffee with the woman and say, “So you wrote a dissertation, too” and just stare at her. And then thank her for making sure we had Mac computers and Final Cut Pro and digital video cameras. TV Production showed me I could be an artist, which was a realization that changed the course of my entire life. I want to say, “From one Doc to another, thanks for everything.” And then turn around and never look back again.

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