It's the People Who Matter

1994: Gaining confidence in fifth grade

I can vividly recall the first day of fifth grade.

Thomas Fuller—who would eventually become a colleague and go on to serve as the Lower School Head until his retirement in 2019—greeted students into the foyer. Although we had never met before, he invited me into McCoy Hall 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.

I also found comfort in the consistency of still having Bill Jacob as my drama teacher. In fourth grade, he had taught me Spanish, and I cherished his clear, deep, and theatrical voice along with his Robin Williams persona that reflected his compassionate, larger-than-life personality.

As a fifth-grader, 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.

Likewise, my memories of my fifth-grade physical education teacher, Jeff Gates, remain warm and vivid. Not only was he the Athletic Director until his retirement in 2022, but he also became a beloved mentor. 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, learn from setbacks, and always give my best honest effort, no matter the outcome.

In spring 2022, 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 of the teams, and he’s basically tireless. . . . I am really happy for him to be sailing off into retirement,” Tom said.

Revisiting Tom’s remarks a year after he offered them, I couldn't help but also think about how Mr. Gates still hasn't really left; he still cheers on the Gators at home and away games, and I enjoyed catching up with him during last winter’s exciting varsity basketball season.

1994: Maturing in 8th grade

Prior to the start of eighth grade, the Middle School embarked on a bonding trip to Camp Cedar in Casco, Maine.

My classmates and I bunked with Mr. Murray—who would later become the Upper School Dean of Students and another close colleague—a new teacher who had just joined Brimmer. 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 Cedar, a sleepaway sports 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 counselors officiated a round-robin soccer tournament, with the entire Middle School divided into several 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.

“You've got this, David,” Mr Murray cheered me on from the sidelines. “Don't be afraid to move out of the box and get the ball. Let your teammates know what you need.”

My team reached the final match, culminating in a tense shootout. The pressure weighed on me, and I couldn’t help but wonder when my luck would finally give way.

“Just choose a goalpost to protect,” Mr. Murray yelled. “Take a chance and that's the best that anyone can do.”

Regardless of the outcome (I blew it), 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 which 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, and he made me feel seen.

“David, just do the best you can,” he said. “If it’s not perfect, that’s okay. Just keep moving forward.t

2000-2002: Finding myself in Upper School

For the first two years of high school, my parents recommended that I transfer from Brimmer to another nearby independent school. They valued Brimmer, but they thought I would benefit socially from a larger circle of friends. To this day, conveying the enormity of this error remains challenging, as I felt like a social outcast and experienced greater anxiety and depression as a consequence. It's difficult to engage in academic learning when one feels emotionally wrecked.

I'm unsure why I lingered for two years before transferring back to Brimmer. Perhaps it stemmed from a trait my teachers often noticed in me: a dogged inclination to see things through to their conclusion, which I saw as doing it “right.” It’s funny how the mind sometimes blocks out bad memories and experiences, for as much as I lovingly recall my final two years of high school back at Brimmer, I remember almost nothing of my first two years at that other school.

I returned to Brimmer in the fall of 1999, already having taken American History, a course I now teach and which remains an 11th-grade requirement. Fortunately, I had little choice but to enroll in Ted Barker-Hook's Modern United States History class, which, though not officially labeled as an AP course, held a reputation for rigor.

As an emotionally fragile 16-year-old, I couldn't have found myself in a more fortunate position. Being the only junior in the class, I was supported by my 12th-grade peers in every way imaginable. They treated me like a younger sibling, and during the annual Ring Ceremony, they all took to the stage to talk about me and present my gift.

“We care about and love this awesome junior, who is so special and is going to do great things next year,” I recall Reed Allmendinger ‘01 saying to the packed audience, as I came up onto the stage to give him and my other peers hugs. It felt amazing to feel not simply accepted, but also embraced.

I felt that same support from Mr. Barker-Book, who, rain or shine, always sported a leather bomber jacket with tan, khaki pants. As a socially awkward young person who lacked confidence in himself, I valued Mr. Barker-Hook as a teacher and mentor. 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 HalI, 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.

In 12th grade, I also had Mr. Barker-Hook for Modern World History, where he held me to higher standards than my 10th-grade peers (in 2001, the School didn't offer nearly as many classes as it does today, leaving me with few other history courses to choose from).

By the end of 12^th grade, I had come a long way, as Mr. Barker-Hook attested in his year-end comment about me: “All year I tried to push David beyond my expectations for his sophomore classmates, 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 since September 2001.”

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 year-end 12^th-grade comment about me. “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.

In biology, with Cecilia Pan as my teacher, I also felt that I was learning something beyond just the subject matter. By delving deeply into RNA, DNA, and the cellular cycle, I gained a greater appreciation for science. My health anxiety also diminished once I learned how my body protects itself against bacteria and viruses.

I adored learning about Charles Darwin and his groundbreaking work in evolutionary biology. She captivated my attention by teaching about the 1925 Scopes "Monkey Trial,” a historical legal case in which a teacher faced prosecution for violating Tennessee's ban on teaching human evolution in public schools.

For intellectual exploration, as an 11th-grader, I also felt privileged to be in Judith Guild's AP Literature class. I had never met anyone as well-read as she was or with such a profound grasp of the human condition. I fondly remember comparing and contrasting Charles Dickens’s Hard Times with Elizabeth Gaskell’s North and South, two novels written by contemporaries and set during the peak of England’s Industrial Revolution.

I also remember being captivated by A Good Man Is Hard, a collection of stories by the celebrated Southern author Flannery O’Connor. Mrs. Guild's engaging discussions and thought-provoking inquiries about the themes within the literature, especially around the concepts of good, evil, and redemption, played an essential role in shaping my maturing understanding of morality.

2023: Helping my students thrive

Upon her return from break a few weeks ago, I reconnect with Judith, who now serves as the head of the school. I tell her that, as a teacher myself, I am continually working to guide my students in discovering their own moral compasses, just as she had done for me during high school.

I encourage my history students to embrace discomfort, historical empathy, and how a better understanding of the past can inform their own sense of right and wrong.

I feel further affirmed in my approach when Judith tells me that good teaching “comes down to helping students develop a passion for lifelong learning, which we hope also guides them in developing a high-quality moral compass.”

Judith says that I still possess the same moral compass she first saw in me as a student: “You aren't willing to just go the easy route and say, ‘oh no big deal,’ if you see that something is not right. You share your concern with others, and you do it respectfully.”

Respectfully, Judith gives me too much credit for cultivating those qualities without reinforcement from educators like herself.

In this vein, when I ask if Judith remembers me as an anxious high school student, she pushes back: “You were earnest and eager to do what was right. That didn't allow you to look me in the eye and say, ‘here's my work’ when you really hadn’t done your work. I saw that thoroughness as proof; you wanted to prove that you really did your work, even if I asked for one page and you submitted five.”

Judith says that as an educator, she knows I strive to impart an equally strong sense of integrity to my students. With advances in Artificial Intelligence, it is easier than ever for them to cut corners and be dishonest. I want students to do the right thing, even though it may not always be the easiest path to take.

Judith says that my striving to always do the right thing, even if I sometimes fall short, is why I have continued to succeed in advising The Gator.

“You want to remain true to journalistic values and principles, but you also want to make sure you don't harm students. I count on that, and I think you were the same student when I taught you. You wanted to do the right thing.”

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 in my case, and I suspect for many others as well, 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 with you because you had so much promise and you were so clearly bright.”

I'm continually learning from Ted about how to motivate students without inadvertently causing burnout. Following his advice, I've shifted away from the traditional practice of assigning zeros to missing assignments, which disproportionately hinders one’s ability to recover academically. Starting last fall, I incorporated his method into my grading system, where I count uncompleted work as half-credit. This encourages students to remain persistent, countering the belief that their efforts are futile when they encounter setbacks.

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 US 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.