kevin p. siu

I went to the 2008 RHHS Commencement a couple nights ago, with Alex. They had it at the Sheraton ballroom over at Highway 7 and Leslie. Evidently, RHHS has gone big since the last time I was there, and the school has too many people to do a proper commencement in the gymnasium/cafetorium now. The food was better, the stage even had a big screen with a live video feed, and all was good (except it was still pretty bland and boring – but what did you expect from a high school commencement?)

Props also to Alex Leung, the 2008 valedictorian, whom, despite a rather unconventional speech with lots of shouting, did a great job describing their trials and tribulations over at the ‘ol high school. I was worried Dr. Chan would die in shock when Alex L started shouting stuff like “we were the last to have grade nine camp!”, but she took it all in stride, probably savouring the fact that she got a promotion to work at the board instead of the high school. The new principal, too, sounds rather Mr. Leonard-like, cutting his own speech short for the sake of the obviously bored and antsy grads.

But on to the main point of this particular post. At commencement, I saw a great handful of my past teachers, and it led me to some reflection. As I saw one of them walk by, I felt guilty at not having said “thanks” to him.

Now, of course, I’m not the most sentimental of people, so I’ll have you know, I never actually thanked any of my high school teachers (I did, however, give the favour to Mr. Crawford my grade 8 teacher). That’s not to say I didn’t appreciate their work, just that I never felt compelled to say so formally. On this occasion, however, it might be worth backtracking.

At RHHS, I’ve had some of the greatest of them, and many deserve at least a note here. These great teachers include: Mr. Brar, the fierce calculus teacher who never stopped his relentless attack on the limits of my ability, which to this day has yet to be matched (regardless of EngSci); Ms. Ireland (now Mrs. Doganoglu), the oh-so-nice science teacher who never said a bad word about even the worst of her students, and undoubtedly my favourite teacher through high school; Mr. Ross, the vaunted discrete teacher who made mathematicians cool, and made math class a passionate experience to remember; Mrs. Kennedy, the loud-but-endearing chemistry teacher who we could hear across a wall, but always made chemistry make so much sense; Ms. Martin, the eccentric chemistry teacher who tried to teach us how to make fireworks before she taught us how to titrate; Mr. Ridout, who, despite my misgivings with his rather rigid class, laid down the best computer science foundation any high school computer science teacher could lay for a student; Ms. Sudy, who despite never having taught any of my classes, was one of the most amiable and down-to-earth people I’ve ever met.

All of these teachers made a remarkable impact on my high school education, but there was one in particular I never mentioned, and one I would never have expected to have such a lasting impression. Enter Mr. Pomakov. The Head of English would never have crossed my mind, during any time of my high school career, as the teacher who would have the most impact on me.

Why Mr. Pomakov? I was never comfortable with his class – grade 12 English, nor will it ever be near the top of my favourite subjects list. In fact, I dreaded his class when I went into my senior year. But it was perhaps the fact that I was never quite comfortable with English (both the language and the subject), that his extraordinary character affected me so.

Imagine the scene. It was grade 12, and I was a self-professed science-and-math-loving nerd and english-hating student, entering the dreaded grade 12 english class, with the teacher who had become known for giving out a legendary amount of work load. There was every reason for me to become disinterested, as I had done in all my previous english and language classes.

But his classes were remarkable. They always fluttered around the boundaries of my comfort level, what with the regular journal entries, impromptu discussions, almost weekly presentations, and of course, essays. This is what made his class great. I never cared for presentations, and before this point in my life, I had always approached any kind of public presentation with a sense of dread and reprehensiveness. But, after the last of his classes, I could prepare for a presentation not with fear, but with passionate anticipation. It was as if he tuned into my mind, full of relentless ideas, and opened up an outlet for me to stream them.

Admittedly, he never did much directly. I didn’t become a confident speaker because he told me things; I became one because he let me. It was as if he knew just how to let me express myself, without too much control, and without too much freedom. The man was intelligent, and knew how to provoke conversation at just the right times and on just the right topics. I never knew it, but it was perfect. I learned, in that class, the art of giving a good presentation. I became passionate about it, and I have been great at it ever since. (Still working on it, of course.)

For all your efforts, and sorry for being so late: thank you, Mr. Pomakov.