Herman's Way
By Greg Mizel, Principal, Del Norte High School
He was a Deadhead through and through—a throwback to the sixties and Haight-Ashbury. A balding hippie with long frizzy hair and a Jerry Garcia-like beard, Mickey Herman had been fighting a terminal form of melanoma cancer for the better part of a decade when I first met him. He was a math teacher at Mesa Verde Middle School, and I was the new principal.
Though he was sick and often in pursuit of experimental treatments, Mickey loved being in his classroom and spending time with his students. Even on those days when his energy was low, teaching math was clearly Mickey’s passion, his life focus, and his gift to the world. If anything, facing his own mortality increased Mick’s desire to teach. His interactions with the kids became more and more precious to him, and they strengthened his resolve to continue to struggle against a disease that rarely loses.
I’ll never forget the first day I walked into Mickey’s classroom. Math classes are often arranged around an overhead projector, with chairs in rows or clusters. Bulletin boards are typically sparse. Mickey’s classroom was an exception. Colorful and interesting pieces of artwork hung everywhere—on the walls, on the shelves, and even from the ceiling. Mick’s students regularly applied their newly acquired math skills to create enlargement projects, tessellations, and geometric string art. His classroom was a museum of their best efforts—a gallery of sorts. A huge tube of toothpaste sitting next to an equally impressive toothbrush hung near the white board at the front of the room. A perfect two-foot-long replica of a Hershey’s candy bar sat on a shelf near the back, and all along the walls were various other student projects: a sailing ship, a papier maché license plate, sand-blasted mirrors with math messages, and wood cutouts of various mathematical theorems and postulates.
Even more impressive than the artwork, though, was the spirit of the place. You could just feel Mick’s connectedness with his students upon entering his classroom. Perhaps it was that he was so unconventional—wearing tie-dye T-shirts and playing the likes of Janis Joplin while students worked together in small groups. Perhaps it was his openness and honesty. Mickey freely shared his humanity with his students, even going so far as to disclose the details of his struggle with cancer. Perhaps it was his gentle and patient intelligence. Mr. Herman understood math, and more, he had a gift for explaining it to his students without them ever feeling disrespected or foolish or burdensome. Or maybe it was the simple note Mick wrote to his students on a small corner of a white board that best captured the spirit of his classroom: If you’re my student, you’re my student for life.
October 20, 2005, was Mickey Herman’s last day teaching. He died December 30th that same year under Hospice Care. In January, our middle school hosted his memorial service. It was as unconventional as the man himself: No pastor or reverend or rabbi. No formal prayer. No Scripture readings. Lots of loud music, though. Guitar rifts from Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Free Bird spilled out of the jam-packed gymnasium that day as hundreds of students—past and present—came to pay their respects to a man who had touched their lives. Many waited 30 minutes or more standing in long lines to share a testimonial during the open microphone part of the service. Uncomfortable, nervous, some visibly trembling, yet somehow compelled, each one of these young people told a very personal story about how Mickey Herman had taught them math and so much more. “I thought of Mr. Herman as my friend—not a teacher,” said one. “He cared,” shared another, “and not just for me. He opened up his classroom and helped anyone who needed it.” Many of the students who spoke that day openly acknowledged that they had not been very good students in middle school. With a smile and a respectful nod to the teachers present for the service, each one reiterated the same sentiment … Mickey Herman had made a difference.
We struggled as a staff after that memorial service. It was hard moving on. We mounted a custom-made street sign, Herman’s Way, on a lamppost out on the school fire lane. We purchased rubber wristbands—like the popular LIVESTRONG bands—only in tie-dyed colors in Mick’s memory. We even had a “hippie dress-up day” at school. The sadness and sense of loss lingered though. While each of these gestures was well intentioned, none seemed to create the right tribute to the inspiration that was Mick in a meaningful way.
It wasn’t until several months later—mid-summer—that an idea first emerged . . . a promising idea that would honor a beloved colleague and friend and, more importantly, continue the good work he was so well known and respected for doing. By early August, the idea had grown and the Herman’s Way Project was born. It was a simple idea really. In honor of Mickey, each staff member would commit to adopting a student at risk.
Before it was rolled out to the staff, the counselors and the administrative team assembled a list of possible Herman’s Way Project (HWP) student candidates. This list of our most needy students emerged out of a variety of criteria: grades, discipline records, home life, social skills, socio-economic status, etc. In all, we assembled a list of about 100 students who represented all sectors of our student population: RSP, SDC, AVID, ELL, and GATE. Looking over the list of assembled names in my office that day in August, I could still hear the chorus of student voices fresh in my mind from Mickey’s memorial service. I knew we were on the right track.
During a September staff meeting, we rolled out the Herman’s Way Project, and in October we held a school-wide draft. The list of student names, originally compiled by counselors and the administrative team, further expanded by additional teacher nominations, was posted along a main wall of the library. On draft day, every teacher wrote his or her name beside a student’s name posted on the wall. That simple act was symbolic of a commitment to make a connection with a student at risk. Staff members were free to adopt whomever they felt most comfortable with, and they were free to define the parameters of the relationships they would be establishing. The desire, of course, was that teachers would invest time and effort in establishing rapport with their adopted kids. Through these relationships, we hoped to expand our individual and collective influence on students, while personalizing our school environment.
As a means of providing for accountability and opportunities for greater collaboration, teachers, counselors, and the administrative team committed to meeting once each trimester to discuss HWP kids. Information and insights are shared, strategies discussed, and partnerships are solidified. The format is open, and teachers are invited to lead the discussions. It was a little bit rough going in the beginning, as there was some confusion about expectations, and some teachers were simply slow to make meaningful connections with their adopted kids—after all, for several on my staff, this was new work. By the second trimester, though, the conversations had changed. They were rich in detail and much more substantive. There was ample evidence the staff was on board and actively working to make connections with our most needy students. The individual stories shared were heartening, and I knew Mick would be proud. Several staff members went to extraordinary lengths to establish relationships with their HWP kids, meeting with these students during their lunches and before and after school. Some sent notes and birthday cards. Some shared hobbies with their kids: working out in the Fitness Lab, hiking local mountain trails, biking, and cross-stitching. Others on staff, who were less comfortable with this work, found simple ways to express their care and concern: greeting their HWP kids at the classroom door with a smile, taking a personal interest in their well-being, and making an extra effort to encourage and support their academic success.
Hundreds of MVMS students have been adopted since this program’s inception—students who have been individually embraced by a staff of caring people who were inspired by the life and death of an amazing teacher and colleague. In the song Free Bird, Lynyrd Skynyrd asks the question:
If I leave here tomorrow
Would you still remember me?
For I must be traveling on, now,
'Cause there’s too many places I've got to see.
Ironically, only a few years before the social unrest of the 1960s, a staunchly conservative man who never would have understood the hippie movement had this to say about good teaching:
“… I am firm in my belief that a teacher lives on and on through his students … Tell me, how can good teaching ever die? Good teaching is forever and the teacher is immortal.”
- Jesse Stuart taken from The Thread that Runs So True
Mick’s tie-dyed shirts, his taste in music, and his courageous battle with cancer made him memorable, but it was his connections with kids—especially those disengaged and unmotivated—that make him unforgettable. While Mickey Herman is no longer physically with us, he continues to teach and inspire me and the staff at Mesa Verde.