On the outside, Bruce Kutney looked like a typical English 10 teacher in the late 80’s-early 90’s. Every day he wore ironed shirts, tie, and large, square framed glasses. He was clean cut, except for the year he experimented with a mustache. He was calm, mellow, easy going. On the inside, though, he had the superpower to change people’s lives. I was one of those lucky people.
First of all, Mr. Kutney introduced me to Shakespeare, and that’s been a 30-year love affair. All sophomores were required to read “Romeo and Juliet”. I can’t imagine how horrid a concept that must have been to shlup through this romantic, obscurely written play with your typical jeans and T-shirt tenth grader. But, Mr. Kutney taught us to fall in love with the words, to really feel the story, once even standing upon his desk and acting out what a modern day Romeo would have said (Woooo, Juliet! You are lookin’ hot tonight!). We laughed at Shakespeare’s jokes because he helped us get them. We were irate for the murdered Mercutio and desolate for heartbroken Juliet. We didn’t just read that required play, we experienced it, in a way even the curriculum director didn’t expect.
When we studied vocabulary words as ACT prep, we didn’t do flashcards or dittos. Mr. Kutney gave us a list of the words and their meanings, then we wrote short stories using the words to demonstrate our mastery. To this day, the satire I wrote about a suicidal girl saved by a bag of oreos and the detective who was actually a goldfish are two of my favorite pieces of writing--in addition to cementing the words obsequious, banal, trite, and plethora in my mind forever.
It was this work that led me to stay after class one day and pull out a typed story I’d been working on. I’d written short stories for 3 or 4 years when I met Mr. Kutney, but never showed them to anyone. Not only did he take it seriously, but he seemed honored I’d asked him to read it, giving me the little push I needed. Over the next two years, we worked on that story, other stories and, eventually, I created a book during our independent study of creative writing. By this time, I referred to him as BK, and made a huge point out of pulling recyclable paper from his trash can to put in the recycling bins. I worshipped Mr. Kutney, hung on his every critique, and swooned when he liked what I wrote. He made me believe not that I could BE a writer someday, but that I WAS a writer, and the path would lead me wherever I wanted to go. When I applied to Western Michigan University, it was to major in creative writing.
My freshman year of college, we celebrated our favorite teachers, but Mr. Kutney couldn’t attend. So, we met at a Chinese restaurant on a Saturday instead--way better--and I told him I was entering the field of education. I can write in the summer, I told him, but still make enough money to eat. Mr. Kutney nodded in understanding, but I know now a little bit of his dream died that day, too. Yes, I’ve loved being a teacher, but my passion was writing, and Mr. Kutney gave me the permission, the fire, to follow that passion. I want him to know the fire’s always been there, embers glowing, waiting for the right time. I want him to know I’m finding a way to fill both purposes in my life. I want him to know that, as a teacher, I know how much of your heart you put into your students, your kids, and I’m not about to let him down, though it’s been quite a while since I’ve been a kid. I want him to know that, without him, all those typed stories would’ve stayed in a box, never seen, never read, and I certainly wouldn’t be telling anyone a story in a newspaper today.
When I type at my computer now, I can feel the fire beneath my fingertips and I wonder, What would BK think of this one? I hope he would be proud.
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