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The house of my childhood, 51 S. Julia St.

As I drove down Government Street in Mobile, Al  last week under the canopy of live oaks which so defines this city, I found myself smiling, remembering when I was sixteen and learning to drive with my mother in the car. Because the city so treasures these trees, they’ve widened the major streets as far as they could without tearing them down, leaving very little room in the right median. “Over to your left! Left! Left!” my mother would say repeatedly, convinced I was going to crash into those trees. And so I learned to hug the middle lanes, a practice I continue unreflectively, thirty five years later.

We are shaped powerfully by our hometowns, in smaller and larger ways. Arriving here in mid-June I was instantly reminded of the heat and humidity, which hits you like a wave that washes over you when you step out of the house. I am convinced that’s what causes everyone down here to slow down and be a little less concerned with punctuality, lest we arrive at our destinations on time but dripping in sweat. My wife, a veritable northerner from Montgomery, fussed at me the first three or four years of our marriage for being consistently 3-5 minutes “late” for things, and I would argue that five minutes was well within the margin of error in “coastal time,” but she eventually won that battle, and now we and our four children are practically O.C.D. , arriving five minutes early. That’s OK--we’re living here now, and I fully expect the pace of this place to win my wife over.

Though I grew up in Mobile, I spent a large portion of my summers near Point Clear with my good friend Vincent Ho, whose parents owned (and still own) a house and pier on the bay. Fishing, playing guitar, sailing, catching crabs, arguing and laughing--I have fond memories of those days. Now I will be living nearby, three and one half decades after the fact, and it feels like a story in which the later chapters begin to enlighten the earlier ones, bringing the disparate parts into a whole.

My father is no longer with us. What weighs on me about that, apart from simply missing him, is I am now the oldest male of my family, the “heir apparent,” though I am keenly aware that I fall miles short of Dad on many fronts. Still, being here gives me the new opportunity to be the son to my mother, the big brother to my sister and her family, and to be connected to the family “hub” in a way that was impossible when I was living away these last three decades. I welcome the opportunity to reintegrate with them, with old friends, and with new ones I’ve not yet met. And I look forward to building my life here with my wife, tying her together with my past, and forging our futures together.

There is no place like home.

Fond Farewell

It’s 7 a.m. Thursday morning, two days before we leave Hendersonville, TN, our home for the last seven years.  I am sitting on the deck of my house and it’s cool outside, with a gentle breeze blowing. Inside, the house is in complete disarray, with random boxes laying half packed in the living room, some of the familiar furniture missing, already packed from a hard week’s work, and miscellaneous items strewn about the floor.

As has been typical through-out my life, I find myself writing so as to bring order to the disarray of thoughts jumbling around in my head. Or maybe it’s just to get away from the boxes.

My wife Diane feels these transitions more than me, but even I have been tinged with dueling emotions of excitement for our next adventure, mixed with the melancholy of leaving JPII. For me, “place” is inexorably wrapped up in “job,” and I am keenly aware that I am leaving what I still believe is one of the best Catholic high schools in the country. For Diane, it’s about the quality of the relationships she’s formed--with fellow teachers at the school, with her Church music group, with a wonderful group of women she’s come to know socially.

Even so, I am returning home to Mobile, Al to begin a new Catholic high school there.  That word “home”  resonates even more powerfully in the wake of my father’s death last spring. I was eighteen when I left Mobile, a wide-eyed freshman on my way to Notre Dame, and I’ve been back many times since, but but only as a temporary guest, visiting my parents and my sister’s family. Now we return to put down roots, and there is something cathartic about that, almost as if our lives have run full circle. Being there for my mother in her golden years will also be a great blessing.

I am grateful for these last seven years as headmaster of JPII. I found it a deeply challenging school to lead, so much so there were moments of self-doubt, something my wife will tell you (with a wry smile) is a pretty rare thing. The level of expectation that falls upon all parties-- students, teachers, administration, headmaster--is so high as to be at times crushing, but I think that’s the flip side of a school that is also exceptional in helping kids stretch beyond their capabilities and the fantastic results that follow. Jacob Telli, a recent graduate and winner of the “scholar-athlete” award that recognizes one male and one female who have excelled in both the classroom and playing field, achieving “balance” in their commitments to both, said during his acceptance speech that he “never felt balanced a single day of his life at JPII.” He then added “But I learned in Physics that things have to be out of balance to move, and so I want to thank my teachers for making me so uncomfortable all of these years and moving me forward.” I think Jacob summarizes the sense of JPII quite beautifully. High expectations are not a bad thing in the long run. In the short run, there’s going to be some stress.  

I am grateful not just in the abstract, but for specific people I have come to know and work with these last seven years. Karen Phillips and Mike McLaren are two of the finest people I’ve ever met and are the heart and soul of JPII. Laura Thigpen, Betsy Pierpoli and Vicki Dorr are exceptionally gifted women who lead the school’s business office. Michelle Barber has been a great blessing to the school and to me in the short time she’s been there. Behind the scenes, there are magnificent women such as Sheree DiMenno, Jolind Weaver, Sharon Hager, and Karen Brown In the classroom, one would be hard-pressed to find better teachers than Betty Mayberry, Jennifer Dye, Andrew Griffith, Jennifer Smith, Paul Saboe, the Pepers and so many others. Deacon Edwards, Fr. McGowan and Melissa Vaughn have done a magnificent job in campus ministry and I’m very proud of the community of faith we’ve formed. I am grateful for my relationship with Alan Mila, Justin Geisinger, Scott Shaver, Michael Brown, Bob Page and Kip Brown--exceptional men first, and excellent coaches second. I am proud of our fine arts program and faculty. I want to thank Dr. Barrow for the special kindness he’s shown our son Daniel. Special gratitude to my executive assistant these last two years, Lori Jones, who has been my “left brain” in keeping me organized even while juggling many other tasks. I am only sorry I didn’t ask her to become my assistant much earlier.

Thank you, too, to Bill Wood, who led our Board of Trustees during my earlier years with the school. Bill was a great confidante of mine and spent innumerable hours helping me lead the school--frankly, I’m not sure how he also maintained his business during those years. I will always remain humbled by and grateful to the Carell family for their magnificent generosity to JPII--to Monroe and Anne, for their original gift to create the school and their philanthropy to our students for tuition assistance thereafter, and to Jim Carell, for his gifts that helped us re-design and complete our athletic facilities.  Dr. Williams, superintendent of Catholic Schools, was always supportive of me, and I am grateful to her. From the beginning, Bishop Choby was both friendly and pastoral, and I can only hope to forge a similar relationship with Archbishop Rodi in Mobile.

I am aware that by naming those people I am grateful for, I am unwittingly forgetting many people who are unnamed and rightfully deserving of my explicit gratitude, so please forgive me. Suffice it to say that what makes for an excellent school is NOT the headmaster, but the many, many people who labor out of love for our students and for our school, sometimes in public, but more often than not behind the scenes, in private--preparing excellent lessons for class the next day, planning an event just right so that it goes off without a hitch, grading an essay carefully, writing recommendation letters for college admissions, working with kids after school in tutorials, throwing extra pitches after practice, editing a document for publication for the umpteenth time, designing a school web page, monitoring after school detentions, giving kids extra studio time to finish an art project, or counseling a student after hours. I am filled with gratitude for all of you.

I will miss you. May God bless you, and may He continue to bless this magnificent school.

Alma Mater

Student assembly address, my last as headmaster of JPII

Yesterday was Mother’s Day, so I thought it appropriate to share three stories about mothers facing difficult circumstances that I came to know in my role as principal. 

In the early 1990’s, I substituted for our freshman Geography teacher some time in early September. She was teaching students  to understand maps, and as one of the first assignments, she wanted them to map out our campus, which was pretty easy, because at the time our campus consisted of two buildings: a long, narrow rectangular main building that ran horizontal with the street, and a rectangular gym behind the main building, perpendicular to it, to the left, in effect making an "L." So we went outside and studied it for a few moments, then came back inside and students drew what they saw. There was one kid in the class, we’ll call him Jim, who handed in a “map” with two perfect squares on top of each other. It wasn’t even close to being correct. So I suggested he go outside and look again. He did so, then came back and drew a square and a circle on top of the square.  He just couldn’t see it, and I remember thinking, Jim had very little chance of making it through our curriculum. 

But I had not yet met his mom. She was amazing. She knew her son had serious learning disabilities, so every night she sat down with him,  reviewing what they had studied in school that day, helping him with his homework. She didn’t want her son to be treated any differently than anyone else, and she asked for no “favors” or considerations from Jim's teachers, telling me once “When my son has to get a job, he must compete along with everyone else, and he won't get accommodations.”  For sure, Jim struggled during his years of high school, and along the way, failed many tests, and even had to go to summer school for a few of his classes. But his mom kept him from feeling sorry for himself, kept him from giving up or getting discouraged, and because of her, Jim became an alumnus of our school.

Second story: I received a tip from students that a junior boy, Joe,  was selling marijuana at our school, so I pulled Joe out of class and asked him to empty his backpack. Sure enough, he had a substantial bag of marijuana in his bag—too big for his personal use alone. Add to that there were smaller plastic bags in his backpack to be used, obviously, for distributing and selling smaller amounts.  “What’s this?” I asked, already knowing the answer. Joe thought nervously for a moment, then set his jaw, steeling himself for the lie. “I have no idea, Mr. Weber.  Someone must have placed it in my bag.” “Why would someone do that?” I asked. “People don’t like me, I guess.” And so we went back and forth for a while, and as he continued to weave together this long lie, he became more confident, even cocky, admitting no wrong doing.  I brought in his parents, and began asking him the same kind of questions in their presence, getting similar answers. Finally, his mother, with fire in her eyes, looked fiercely at her son and said, “Joseph, cut the crap. You are my son. Our family isn't perfect, but we're not liars. You tell Mr. Weber the truth.” And as that  young man looked into his mother’s eyes, he crumbled, teared up some, admitted he was selling and told us the whole story.  Yes, I had to expel him, but I am happy to report there's a good ending to the story: Because of this mother and her insistence that her son be truthful and take responsibility for his mistakes, that hard moment served as the beginning of a real turnaround in Joe's life. He's now happily married with children of his own. 

Third story: There was a senior boy, CJ, who played basketball in our school—one of the best athletes in the school. He had been raised all his life by his mom; his dad left them when he was an infant. She was a nurse and worked extra shifts so she could pay for her son to attend our school. She was a tough, uncompromising woman, having to play the role of mother and father in her son’s life, and she lived a hard life.  The last home basketball game, we did senior recognition the same way we do it here: seniors were introduced with their parents and walked out to half court together. The problem was this boys’ mother had become very sick,  even hospitalized at one point, and wasn’t supposed to come to the game.  She couldn’t really walk, even. But nothing could have kept her away, and she showed up in a wheel chair. When the boy was announced, instead of walking out with his mom, he walked across the court to where his mother was sitting, and very tenderly, helped her from her wheelchair to her feet. It took some time for her to stand, and the gym went silent. When she finally stood up, the boy took her arm  into his and stood with her, proudly. The moment was very moving to everyone in the gym, because this young man, who played basketball with such toughness, treated his mom with such reverence.

So three stories about three moms. But what do they say about motherhood? First, as in the case of the boy with learning disabilities, a mother’s love and attention can empower us to achieve great things, far beyond our natural abilities. Second, mothers compel us to be honest—with others, but just as important, honest with ourselves. Third, moms inspire us to be reverent and kind. 

Seniors will graduate this Saturday, and JPII will become their “alma mater.” That’s an interesting Latin term, which means literally “nourishing mother.” I think long ago people realized that good schools are a lot like good mothers. I hope, in any event, that's been true of your experience of JPII--that you've been nourished to achieve and to extend yourself, that you are challenged to be truthful with yourself and others, and that you appreciate life, revering the people you meet, grateful for the opportunities and blessings God has given you. 

Post hoc--We sang the alma mater one last time!

As we close out the year and begin to prepare for exams next week, I hope you’ve found JPII to be a true “alma mater” this year and over the course of your high school careers so far. This is the last assembly that I'll be part of as your headmaster at JPII. I'd like to ask as we move on, that we sing our alma mater one last time together.