20 minute read
IT’S THE PEOPLE WHO MATTER
Reflecting on the caliber of our educators and their impact on student outcomes.
By David Cutler ’02, Upper School History and Journalism, Advisor to The Gator
Thirty years after he first set foot on campus as a fourth grader in 1993, David Cutler ’02 still feels a deep sense of wonder and gratitude. Over the past decade, he has been privileged to work alongside many of his former teachers, who have now become his valued colleagues.
In the School’s 2002 yearbook, my fellow seniors designated me as “Most Likely to Return to Brimmer and May as a History Teacher.”
Their prediction was no frivolous guess; they confidently anticipated that outcome (spoiler alert: they were right). Amid the uncertainties of our collective unwritten futures, at least that much stood certain. My classmates anticipated not only the compelling attraction that would draw me back, but also the transformative spark it would ignite within me—an unwavering commitment to pay it forward, sharing the knowledge, wisdom, and purpose that a fantastically talented group of educators had so graciously bestowed upon me. My teachers recognized my unique talents, addressing my needs with guidance and heartfelt support. Their impact continues to resonate, filling my heart with gratitude.
When I returned to Brimmer as an educator in 2014, after spending six years teaching at an independent school in Miami, Florida, I basked in the tender warmth of homecoming. Now, I aspire to inspire and empower students, drawing upon the influence of my past teachers—many of whom became colleagues—during my cherished years in this exceptional community. To fully grasp the deep significance my alma mater holds for me and understand how my time as a student here has shaped me, we must embark on a journey back in time.
On my first day of fourth grade, as the “new kid” at Brimmer and May, I remember how the sun’s warm and welcoming glow enveloped McCoy Hall. I fluttered between eager anticipation and high anxiety. Inside at the top stairs, I located my classroom nestled at the end of the corridor. A lively woman graced the doorway, her beaming smile greeting students; she sparkled in the light that flooded in from the windows behind her.
“Welcome to Brimmer and May,” said my homeroom teacher Sharin Russell, before showing me to my spot. “We’re going to have a great year, and we are so happy that you are here. From that moment, I felt reassured that I was seen and that I mattered—that I was exactly where I was meant to be.
Nearly three decades later, that feeling continues to burn brightly within me, serving as a constant reminder of the powerful impact a caring educator can have on a student’s life, even through a simple welcome. Under Mrs. Russell’s loving guidance, I anticipated weekly quizzes with excitement, found myself immersed through diligent research in the rich intricacies of Japanese culture, and embraced the intellectual challenge of labeling all 50 states on an unmarked map.
Long before global learning became an educational focus, Mrs. Russell had already embraced its core tenets. Without the Internet, she facilitated pen-pal exchanges to connect her students with counterparts from around the globe. In my young life, of all the people I had encountered up until that point, she held an unmatched ability to cultivate in me a profound appreciation for diversity in all its forms.
I reminded Sharin of as much when I spoke with her recently about her transformative impact on me, not just as a student but also as an educator. She still radiates the same captivating glow. She possesses a rare quality that makes students and colleagues feel completely at ease, as if they can confide in her without any concern of judgment or gossip (and they can).
Even with the passage of time and her transition in 2001 from a full-time classroom teacher to the Director of Annual Giving, she effortlessly shares anecdotes of me as her student, as if it had occurred just yesterday rather than three decades ago. Sharin’s ability to understand who I was as a fourth grader remains unwavering even today, as does her understanding of me as I approach the age of 40. She effortlessly yet compassionately identifies something that I still grapple with to this day.
“I have to admit,” Sharin says, “I distinctly recall talking with your mom about how our focus would always be on helping you understand that none of us can be perfect all the time.” I nod in agreement, as I share my own recollection of crying when I earned a B+ on one of her weekly quizzes, instead of my usual perfect score.
“That’s when we focus on ‘how do I learn to be even-keeled about my emotions and get through it,’ and then say, ‘Okay, let’s learn from this and move on,’” Sharin tells me. “But I think your passion for things is what makes you an incredible person.” I blush at her sincere words.
I’ve long since learned to deal with setbacks, though I still grapple with anxiety. True to her nature, Sharin pinpoints a silver lining in how my own struggles empower me to empathize with students’ needs. “No matter who we are, we seek recognition, aspire to be a guiding light, and yearn to feel valued,” she says, affirming my efforts to overhaul my 11th-grade U.S. History class with the same intention. Next year, I aim to help students see themselves in the curriculum—not just through scholarly textbook authors, but also through diverse and engaging sources that emphasize their importance in our American story.
This is what sets Brimmer apart: compassionate educators who meet students where they are, cultivate their strengths, and support them in identifying and refining areas for growth. Thanks to Sharin, I would become a more confident fifth grader.
On returning the next year, I can vividly recall Thomas Fuller—who would serve as Lower School Head until his retirement in 2019— greeting students at the door. Although we had never met before, he invited me in with an authoritative but soothing teacher’s voice, “Good morning, David Cutler. Welcome back to school.”
I later found out that Mr. Fuller had meticulously reviewed our yearbook headshots to familiarize himself with our faces. Once again, I felt valued and seen, putting me more at ease on the first day of my last year in Lower School.
My memories of my physical education teacher, Jeff Gates P ’13, ’13, ’15, ’15, remain equally warm and vivid. Not only was Jeff the Athletic Director until his retirement in 2022, but he also became a beloved mentor to me. His emphasis on the importance of thoughtfulness made a deep impression on my 11-year-old self.
Clad in his signature polo T-shirt, athletic pants, and running shoes, Mr. Gates urged me to think about my actions before I threw, caught, dived, jumped, or ran. Faced with my minimal coordination, he displayed unwavering patience. He never allowed frustration to surface; instead, he calmly encouraged me to persist and always give my best honest effort, no matter the outcome.
At our 20th high school reunion, my close friend and classmate Thomas Byrne ’02 echoed similar sentiments upon his induction into the Athletic Hall of Fame. “I can’t think of a nicer man on the planet who put up with a lot of shenanigans that my friends and I created when we were here in high school. He’s just very supportive of all the teams, and he’s basically tireless…. I am happy for him to be sailing off into retirement,” Tom said. During the summer, I catch up with Jeff and find myself swept up in a sea of memories spanning over three decades. In my mind, Jeff will forever remain a dynamo of energy; his unyielding vigor as an educator speaks to his steadfast commitment to fostering both healthy minds and bodies.
“I love sports and I love the kids,” Jeff says. “It’s all about loving what you do.”
I share with Jeff how his distinctive skill in making movement fun has ignited my lifelong love for physical activity. Without his influence, I wouldn’t have succeeded in open mid-distance running events during my 20s. Moreover, I make it a point to actively move around my classroom, keeping students engaged and urging them to put forth their best effort.
“Good coaches don’t sit still,” Jeff says. “They need to be active and involved.”
With gratitude to Jeff, I prioritize engagement and motivation as an assistant cross country coach. I strive to match the pace of my youthful runners despite our growing age gap, aiming to inspire them. However, as my 40th birthday nears, I plan to transition from foot racing to cycling to provide sustained supervision. As long as I maintain an active presence around my athletes, I am confident that Jeff would endorse this decision.
This affection also radiates from Thomas. Even four years into retirement, he remains a faithful attendee at Commencement, a dedication upheld by many Brimmer educators past and present. In our summer meeting, I share that I aspire to emulate his dedication in my own teaching career. When I ask him why he keeps returning for graduation, he offers a touching and logical explanation: “Teaching can be likened to working on a Ford assembly line. Elementary school represents the beginning of the line, where we lay out the fundamental parts and develop the frame. As students progress through middle and upper school, we add the intricate details—the plush upholstery, the radio, speedometer, and other enhancements. Graduation signifies the end of this educational assembly line. Wouldn’t you want to see the finished product? To me, that’s the essence of it all.”
Thomas embodies the quintessential Brimmer and May educator, going beyond considering our role as just a job. It is a vocation that deeply resonates, fostering a sustained commitment to the growth and development of students whom we care for wholeheartedly.
Continuing a tradition that predates my time as an Upper School student here, before the start of each academic year, my colleagues and I establish connections with our students at Camp Wingate-Kirkland in Yarmouth Port, Massachusetts. There, we spend an overnight (or two for seniors) interacting with and valuing one another as unique individuals.
Inspired by Thomas, I make it my goal at camp to learn the names of all my new students before returning home. Last fall, I asked students to submit video recordings of their names and preferred pronouns to help me get them right.
When reflecting on precision with names, my thoughts inevitably turn to Bill Jacob P ’06, who was my drama teacher beginning in Lower School. I cherished his clear, deep, and theatrical voice, along with his Robin Williams persona that reflected his compassionate, larger-than-life personality. I learned from Mr. Jacob to take risks, to go big, and to be unafraid—no small feats given my small stature compared to my classmates, most of whom towered above me.
In high school, I delved deeper into vocal expression in Bill’s Public Speaking course, the most pragmatically beneficial elective I’ve ever taken. I convey disappointment that the course was discontinued years ago. To my delight, he responds, “I’ve been tapped to help bring it back in some capacity.”
Bill’s enthusiasm for teaching remains as strong as ever, even as he has moved on to the role of Creative Arts Department Chair, with many of his teaching responsibilities now in the Upper School. To this day, he articulates our graduates’ names as they step onto the stage to receive their diplomas. His commitment to his craft and students is truly phenomenal—anyone who has seen one of Bill’s theatrical productions can attest to the exceptional quality and dedication that goes into each performance.
As I support my students in the development and continued success of The Gator , Brimmer’s highly regarded online newspaper, I find motivation in Bill’s approach. I insist on the highest standards for my journalism students. Accepting mediocrity as the norm is unacceptable; I do my best to encourage them repeatedly to strive for excellence. No matter the outcome, I hope my encouragement conveys the depth of my belief in their ability to excel. The Gator ’s ongoing success in winning the nation’s most prestigious scholastic awards is a testament to the wisdom of learning from Bill’s example; I’m still learning from him.
I feel similarly about Paul Murray P ’23, who served as my eighth-grade humanities teacher. Prior to the start of that year, the Middle School embarked on a bonding trip to Camp Cedar, a sleepaway sports camp in Casco, Maine. My classmates and I bunked with Mr. Murray, a new teacher who would later become the Upper School Dean of Students. His vast knowledge of sports, theater, history, and popular culture quickly endeared him to us. Later that year, he competed in Jeopardy! and triumphed during his first appearance, cementing his popularity. I still can’t help but smile at a framed photo of him posing with Alex Trebek in his office.
Two years earlier, I had attended that very same camp, eager to spend time with my brother, a future college lacrosse athlete. However, my lack of athletic skills left me feeling out of place. Upon my return with Brimmer, my anxiety surged as my former camp counselors officiated a round-robin soccer tournament, with the entire Middle School divided into teams. Despite my limited athletic abilities, I was resolute in showcasing any progress I had made. Recognizing my determination, Mr. Murray provided the support I needed, enabling me to excel briefly as a goalkeeper. For the first time in my life, I experienced a newfound confidence on the athletic field. However, I still had to work on my confidence in the classroom.
During the spring, Mr. Murray stepped in once more to assist me in the “Big Dig,” a once popular tradition that divided the eighth graders into two groups to conceive unique cultures, each rich with art and detailed backstories. Eventually, Mr. Murray broke apart the “artifacts” and buried them outside near May Hall. Subsequently, our teams excavated the site of the other group, which we were told had been undisturbed for a thousand years. We worked to assemble the unearthed artifacts, striving to decode the narratives of these simulated ancient civilizations.
I worked hard to reassemble several paintings, which had seemingly been torn from their frames, but I remained unsure about whether I was proceeding correctly. “Am I on the right track?” I repeatedly asked Mr. Murray, who remained patient and steadfast with me. “Can you give me a hint? I want to be sure I am doing this correctly. Am I doing this correctly?”
Understandably, he refrained from providing any guidance, which would have defeated the purpose of the exercise. But he always listened to me. “David, just do the best you can,” he said. “If it’s not perfect, that’s okay. Just keep moving forward.”
Paul still frequently reminds me that the path to growth and progress is rarely, if ever, a straight one. This past June, we reminisced about my time as his student, and I seized the opportunity to express my overdue gratitude for his patience and faith in me— both as a student and now as a peer. He appreciates the sentiment, but he assures me it is unnecessary.
“At Camp Cedar, I was an ad hoc soccer coach for you at that moment because that’s what you needed,” Paul tells me, correctly observing that being anxious is simply a part of who some people are, and that it’s our role as educators to meet students where they are—and to really listen with empathy. “Just the simple act of listening lets kids and adults know that you care and that they’re being heard.
History class, which, though not officially labeled as an AP course, held a reputation for rigor. Mr. Barker-Hook, who, rain or shine, always sported a leather bomber jacket with tan khaki pants, was both a teacher and a mentor to me. Nobody taught me more about clear and concise writing, or how to think analytically rather than skimming the surface. In his office, then located on the second floor of May Hall, he spent countless extra hours teaching me to revise my prose for clarity and concision.
After graduation, I fondly recall my father approaching Mr. Barker-Hook, jokingly telling him, “So, you’re the wise guy who made my son stay up late every night writing papers for your courses.” Not aware of my father’s humor (in all fairness, he can be difficult to read), Mr. Barker-Hook looked taken aback. “Me? I’m the wise guy,” Mr. Barker-Hook responded. “When I ask for five pages, your son submits 15 pages, sometimes more. I’m the guy who has to stay up late to grade after my family is asleep. It’s more like ‘poor me.’” Afterward, we all laughed and hugged.
By the end of senior year, I knew I had improved as Mr. Barker-Hook attested in his year-end comment about me: “All year I tried to push David beyond my expectations, and he responded with energy and enthusiasm. Having had the chance to teach him for two years, I have seen his writing improve dramatically; both the sophistication of his analysis and the fluidity of his presentation have come a very long way.”
Like Mr. Barker-Hook, my Algebra II and Precalculus teacher Nancy Bradley appreciated my unwavering determination. I didn’t progress as fast in math as I did in history and writing, but that didn’t stop me from seeking her out for extra help at every opportunity.
“As the material grew more challenging, David put in more time,” Mrs. Bradley wrote in her comment about me that year. “I am impressed with the work that he has done over the past two years, and his dedication to doing his best at all times.”
I didn’t always arrive at the correct answer, but I gained analytical clarity. I appreciated how Mrs. Bradley’s pushing to help me think logically also assisted me in my other subjects. In a very real sense, for as much as I struggled in it, math helped me become a better thinker—and thereby a more thoughtful person.
When I recently reconnected with Nancy Bradley, she echoed the observation above from her experience as my math teacher. “I couldn’t give you a problem you wouldn’t be determined to do correctly,” Nancy tells me. “I think that’s something you had, innately. You weren’t going to give up, even if I said, ‘David put your pencil down.’”
Math was my weakest subject in high school, but I tell Nancy that I could not have asked for a better, more patient and effective teacher. Often, it’s the humanities and creative arts teachers who receive praise for fostering a student’s voice and character, but Nancy deserves equal credit in this regard.
Now as an educator, I recall her influence whenever I assist students grappling with a skill or concept; I strive to inspire them to articulate their thoughts as well, which fortifies character and self-initiative.
“You’ve always excelled at making your voice heard, and I loved it; I still do,” Nancy says.
Reflecting on this trait during another frank discussion with Ted Barker-Hook, we recall the countless hours he devoted to refining my expression. I feel choked up, expressing to him that I would not be where I am today without his steadfast belief in my ability to improve.
“I’ve found that one of the hardest things about teaching and coaching is knowing how hard you can push individual students— knowing when you need to back off and knowing when you need to throw some extra love their way, even though more work needs to be done,” Ted says. “And I think when I taught you—and I was still a young teacher then—I was trying to walk that line because you had so much promise and you were so clearly bright.”
Envision my joy over the past decade as I’ve had the privilege of teaching adjacent to Ted’s classroom. I feel a soothing nostalgia whenever his deep, resonant voice permeates our shared wall. Our proximity also allows us to confer about best practices, and every week I ask Ted for some sort of advice; he has played a major role in helping me to think about overhauling my U.S. History class.
When I was in high school, Ted sparked my deep-rooted passion for history and writing. I confess to him that without his mentorship, I wouldn’t have flourished as a history major at Brandeis University, risen to the position of news editor for my college paper, contributed to major media outlets, or felt the calling to mirror his career as a history teacher. I believe this is the highest compliment an educator can receive, and it’s one that Ted entirely deserves.
Our School is blessed with excellent facilities that provide an environment conducive to learning. What isn’t immediately apparent—but is of far greater importance—is the caliber of the educators at our School. Their commitment to nurturing young minds, their expertise in their respective fields, and their passion for teaching are the cornerstones of our educational approach. These intangibles have a profound impact on student outcomes, and they make Brimmer and May a unique place of learning.
My former science teacher Cecelia Pan P ’16 exemplifies this commitment. “I’m about to begin my 28th year here,” she says. “When people ask me why I have stayed on for so long, I always give the same answer: it’s because of the kids.” Indeed, I recall how Cecelia always went the extra mile for her students. She eagerly offered additional help before or after school, attended athletic competitions, student exhibitions, and performances, and willingly volunteered as a chaperone for field trips, especially those focused on science and outdoor exploration. She continues to engage in all these activities with the same level of dedication and enthusiasm.
As we reflect on my time as her student, Cecelia recalls that even though I didn’t label myself as a “science kid,” I maintained a strong curiosity about the functioning of the world around me. As with my other classes, I frequently wrote too much and even asked for additional readings to cement my understanding, including about Gregor Mendel, whose pioneering work on pea plants laid the foundation for our deeper understanding of genetic inheritance.
Despite my greater interest in history and literature, I confess to Cecelia that her role as my science teacher left an indelible mark on my memory. It’s astonishing how much I still recall from her class. Her ability to connect with me, meet me where I am, and guide me toward progress speaks volumes about her patience, talent, and unwavering dedication. What sets Brimmer apart is that, despite her amazing qualities, Cecelia is not an outlier.
Many faculty and staff members have dedicated, and continue to devote, their entire professional lives here. This fosters an unparalleled continuity and depth of knowledge, contributing to each student’s journey of learning.
In my view, there is no finer educational institution than Brimmer and May School. I hope my own journey here, from student to educator, testifies to that conviction. ■
