Odes to retiring faculty by English teacher Dr. Deborah Kassel, HM ‘84

Barry Bienstock

Mr. Bienstock and I go way back to the last century. You wouldn’t think it though by looking at us. Clearly HM is not only the fountain of knowledge but also the fountain of youth.

The year was one thousand eighty two--before the fall of Tillinghast’s fourth floor and many moons of interior renovation. There aren’t many of us left even from the “Time of the Trailers,” when single celled organisms were just beginning to sprout little legs beneath the murky surface of the Prettyman pool (now the Jeffrey de Loria nautical center.) You could call it a simpler time–when people still talked face to face and prehensile thumbs had not yet evolved for text messaging. It was a different age, indeed, when I was my students’ age-- before the mysteries of the universe could be revealed with a single swipe and War and Peace could be written by a computer.

No plastic bottles, no automatic dispensers, No Mister Softee trucks. HM was a much harder place indeed.

No virtual pyrotechnics no power-point, no screens, no extra-literary diversions. And yet, standing on his own two analog feet with some broken chalk and a blackboard, Mr. Bienstock was able to usher us into a new way of seeing the world. He gave us an approach and passion for history that fellow alums will tell you very few university professors or donations can match.

Long before “woke” connotated anything other than an alarm clock, Mr. Bienstock talked about the unsung heroes who had been erased or ignored. While the rest of the world was still playing “cowboys and Indians,” Mr. Bienstock introduced us to a people known as Native Americans.

Ever ahead of his time, Mr. Bienstock was committed to replacing the single story with multiple perspectives, introducing us to newly un-earthed primary sources and The New York Review Of Books. He encouraged us to discover our own stylistic creativity within what was then a more traditional and arguably restrictive pedagogy. So many of the professors I studied with in college seemed guarded, saving the big give-away perhaps for their next publication. But with modesty and generosity, Mr. Bienstock shared his uncannily impressive acumen with us every day. The truest of educators, we knew he wanted to see and read the best in all of us.

I can say with pride and confidence that what I wrote in that AP American seminar from 1982-1983 and throughout my adult life was inspired by Mr. Bienstock-who showed me that writing about history was an art.

It means a lot to me both as an alum and a teacher that Mr. Bienstock has invested most of his professional life into this school–41 years of sharing his prodigious knowledge with generations of students, like me, who are eternally grateful.

Thank you Mr. Bienstock for the gift of education that I try to keep giving because I learned so much from you.

Olive Keegan

Long before we had security guards and cameras in every corner, Mrs. Keegan held down our fortress on the hill, ensuring that only members of the HM community could pass.

The most gracious of gatekeepers, Mrs. Keegan has greeted generations of students and families as they took their first steps on to campus.

Whether the buses or parents were running late, an unconfirmed change of playdate, stress or stomach ache, we have been able to rely on Mrs. Keegan to pick up the phone in our home away from home. Any mother will tell you, leaving a message at the beep can never be enough.

Before the advent of multi-layered administrative offices, we relied on our most essential of fellow workers --Mrs. Keegan-- to field phone calls, deliver hand-transcribed messages, and coordinate the school-wide, word-of-mouth snow chain in the event of last-minute inclemency.

And she did all this at first on a many levered and maddeningly complicated contraption known as a switchboard, inherited from her predecessor, the late and great Mrs. Mary Boyle. Having spent a summer operating one of these intimidating devices, I know that no pre-recorded voice can assuage frantic parents’ breaking down on multiple lines–like Mrs. Keegan has done every day for more than three decades.

For me, Olive will always be my trusted friend and colleague. The lovely green and white luck-of-the-Irish newborn outfit she gave me upon the birth of my now 23-yearold daughter still hangs in the closet–an enduring symbol of the kindness Olive has always shown me and my family.

So the next time a machine puts you on hold, remember that for 33 years Mrs. Keegan answered your questions and soothed your angst with a human voice that was the most humane part of Horace Mann.