We leave our legacy by giving of ourselves in our relationships, and we achieve immortality in the memories of those we’ve influenced and through their ongoing actions. We are standing on the shoulders of those who have gone before us, and we hope to provide that foundation to the generations that follow. This chapter looks at people who have had a profound impact on others and explores how they too were influenced. There’s a high school teacher who opened the minds of his students, a grandmother who inspires her grandchildren, a mentor and a young man who engage in mutual give and take, and a homeless philosopher who forged deep bonds with his community. Their stories remind us that we are surrounded by opportunities to leave ourselves in others, and encourage us to leave our legacy through this gift of connection.
When teachers transmit information, skills, attitudes, values and the sheer love of learning, they leave their imprint on their students. They are in a key position to have an immediate influence on their students’ lives and can leave legacies that reverberate from generation to generation. This has been the case with a high school teacher we’ll call Steve. Here, four of Steve’s former students who were in his classroom half a century ago look back on his impact. Their stories illustrate the power of an exemplary teacher to leave an indelible mark on other human beings.
Steve began crafting his legacy at age twenty-two. That’s when he entered classroom 9B and introduced himself to a couple of dozen teenagers as their English teacher. Four former students, now in their late sixties, can describe with remarkable clarity the impact this young man had on them. All of them have incorporated the arts into their lives in major ways, and three are published authors. All four say they learned from Steve lifelong lessons about questioning conventional thinking. The two women have had careers that defied the gender expectations of a small-town mentality. And the two men are living openly gay lives, and have done so for decades, after coming out in an era that was less accepting than today’s.
Steve was a gifted teacher and his passion for his subject was contagious. “In Steve’s class, literature was presented with reverence and delight,” Alison remembers, “rather than as something to study so we could pass an exam. His background in theatre showed in his engaging teaching style, and I absorbed every word he said. He ignited my lifelong love of books and reading.” Steve’s influence would prove to be life-changing for Alison. She remembers the exact moment when he set in motion her literary career. “One day, he asked the class if anyone wanted to be a writer,” she remembers. “I was too timid to announce that yes, I did. But he pointed to me and said, ‘You could be a writer.’ I was thrilled he thought so. But then he added, ‘You could succeed because you have discipline, and that’s the most important thing.’ At the time, this puzzled me. But much later, I realized he was right—talent and creativity will only get you so far. If you don’t have discipline, you won’t ever finish a book. Over the years, as I struggled with not getting published and almost giving up, I remembered his words and kept going. The fact that he had seen a possibility in me made all the difference.” Alison is now an award-winning writer. Her books have been published in several languages and her stories have appeared in anthologies, newspapers and magazines.
Richard is another of Steve’s students who has made an outstanding contribution to the arts. “I dreamed of being an actor and playwright from age five,” he says. “Steve is one of the key people who gave me the confidence to make my dream a reality. My reminiscences from high school are full of examples of Steve’s life lessons—like the way his grit kept us all together when the opening night of our musical had to be cancelled and rescheduled because of the leading lady’s stage fright.” Richard is an award-winning and internationally acclaimed playwright and novelist, and his friendship with Steve continues to this day. “Steve’s enthusiasm and ever-eager optimism continue to brighten my life,” Richard says.
Beyond transmitting a deep love of his subject, Steve excelled at pushing young people to expand their horizons. “I will always be grateful,” Alison says, “at a time when conformity was expected, especially for girls, that he encouraged us to question conventional thinking and to explore the world beyond our sleepy, conservative city.” Joan says this was Steve’s biggest impact on her. “From an early age, I was determined to find some new territory that was off our tiny map of possible girl futures,” she says. “I remember vividly a dramatic exchange with Steve that crystallized my commitment. One day, when high school and our time with Steve was drawing to a close, he decided to really push us. It was like a final life exam. One by one, he told each of us what our future would look like if we didn’t apply ourselves. When he introduced the exercise, I thought it was pretty risky because it was so personal. But he’d been our teacher all these years, and I felt he’d earned the right to give us his opinion. Plus, I was very curious to hear what he had to say. His comments about every one of us were very insightful and I remember a lot of laughter. When it came to me, he said that if I didn’t apply myself, I’d ‘marry well’ and spend my days chairing volunteer committees. I remember my response was vehement. ‘I’ll prove you wrong.’ It was all very theatrical and I don’t believe there was ever a real danger of me not pursuing a career. But I never forgot our exchange. I loved proving him wrong—and I like to think it pleased him too.”
Joan remembers Steve’s disruptive techniques as a feature of his effective teaching style. “He encouraged us to throw our preconceptions out the window,” she says. “He would lean against the grey window ledge and ask questions such as ‘Why are you certain the sun will rise tomorrow?’ One day, we showed up to class and our chairs were in a circle. This technique may be commonplace now, but it was heresy in the days of regimented desk rows. We were shocked and delighted.”
Gregory also remembers these techniques as an integral part of Steve’s teaching strategy. “Discourse and debate were profoundly encouraged by Steve,” he says. “He gave me room to explore their power and he nurtured my love of language and made it flourish. He was singularly responsible for my love of theatre. My involvement with the world of theatre began with him and continues to this day.” Gregory feels the greatest impact Steve had on his life was as a male role model. “Back in high school, I didn’t realize I was gay, but I was profoundly influenced by Steve as a representative of the adult world who played the world differently,” he says. “He showed me an adult male role very different from other male figures in my life, whether in the school world or the public world. He both conveyed and allowed a sensitivity, a femininity that was way off the norm in our conservative town.”
Steve’s legacy is huge, particularly when you consider that these are the views of a handful of his students and he had a thirty-three-year teaching career. In addition, he was able to continue his influence after he retired, spending a couple of decades running theatre productions with young people. So, to say that I saw the tip of his legacy iceberg is a major understatement. Why was he able to have such an impact? He was clearly a skilled and committed teacher, but there seem to be other factors that supported his character moulding. First, he had a receptive audience in class 9B. This “Special English” class gathered together students with the inclination and aptitude to really dig into his topics. And during their high school careers, they had a surprising amount of exposure to Steve and his world view. “I spent a lot of hours with this class,” he recalls. “Over a four-year period, I taught them literature and composition. So that meant they had eight English classes every week with me, plus two exams. I was also their homeroom teacher.” And some of them participated in his theatrical productions. Steve remembers the class of 9B fondly. “They were my very first teaching class,” he says, “and I can even tell you where individual students sat in the classroom.”
Steve had a mission. “I felt the parents had carved a moat around their children to protect them,” he says. “I wanted them to go out and believe in themselves. They were like a bottle of Coke. After you shake the bottle, it still looks the same. But then you lift the top off and away it goes.”
When I remind Steve what his students have accomplished and how they feel about his contribution, he is quick to minimize his role. “I’ve always been serious about not taking credit for the achievement of kids I’ve taught,” he says. “If they give you credit that’s one thing, but to grab it is wrong. I think a lot of people want to take credit for those who achieve highly. If I’ve been able to be a part of that happening, that’s very satisfying.” He sees his role clearly. “I like to use a campfire image. I’m there to make sure that the fire gets lit. Everyone’s attracted to the heat, but we all have to keep it going. And we do that by sitting around that fire and sharing our stories, our dreams, our goals.” That’s a powerful way to leave a legacy.
Parents have the potential to exert an enormous influence on their offspring, and when I ask parents about their legacy, they often cite their children as “their greatest legacy.” Rightly or wrongly, our children may read specific expectations into this message. They may feel pressure to contribute to our legacy by going into a family business, continuing a family tradition of practising a certain occupation, achieving new heights for the family, or simply “not letting the family down.” As parents, we walk a fine line between transferring our values and generalized aspirations to our children without burdening them with constricting directives. Often, our children are highly sensitive to such signals, sometimes perceiving them when none may be intended.
For this reason, other people in the family circle have the potential to leave their mark on our children without all the drama. This has been the case for Erik and his grandmother, and it illustrates the power of a loving relationship to give a young man roots and wings.
Erik is twenty-six years old and can clearly see how his grandparents’ legacy is playing out in his life. “I have grown up to be interested in the world around me,” he says, “as it is today, as it was yesterday, and how it may turn out tomorrow. My grandparents have played a big part in awakening that interest. The dining table at their house has always been a place for lively discussions and thrilling tales from many corners of the world. I would hear their stories from the South African apartheid regime, Red China under Mao and the West German capital of Bonn. And, despite the fact that my grandparents’ background has given them a lot of knowledge and experience, my arguments and points of view have always been treated with respect. It was always safe to join in on the discussions. Even as a child, I was encouraged to participate. To have grandparents that have taken part in the history of the world has been inspiring and empowering. It has given me a feeling of closeness to important events in our near past and is a source of pride.”
Liv is eighty-one years old and remembers vividly when this grandson came into her life. “Little Erik was a beautiful baby,” she says. “I fell in love with him instantly, and immediately asked his parents to please let me take him for a walk. He smiled and gurgled and was thoroughly lovable. I was fifty-five years old when he was born—young and strong enough to run with him, roll around on the floor or in the snow, lift him up and play games. I have strong memories of his first summers at the cottage. Grandfather and Erik were early risers, and Erik would sit on his grandpa’s shoulders for their morning walk around the island. Erik would have a stick in his hand to ward off all the ‘wild animals.’ The wild animals were sheep, calmly grazing until they heard the sound of the morning patrol. After their walk, the two of them would take care of a small horse who would come to the gate to greet them and wait to be fed. After this morning ritual, we would have breakfast on the veranda. Erik loved to swim and would jump from the quay into adult arms or splash in an old bathtub we found and filled with water. We sang together, nursery rhymes, lullabies and the Beatles’s “Yellow Submarine.” Those first summers were the beginning of a loving relationship.”
Currently, Erik is in year five of a psychology degree. He has spent summer semesters in Germany studying the language. He credits his grandmother with inspiring him to learn German and appreciates her ongoing support. “My German is pretty good,” says Liv, “so I often use German in my email exchanges with Erik, and we did a German workshop together that was pretty advanced. Last year, Erik was an exchange student at a German university, and we visited him there. We had a very interesting weekend, with Erik showing us all the sights in the northeastern part of the country that was once East Germany. We always have a lot to talk about with Erik, whether an in-depth discussion about European history, or his projects at the university, including one he did interviewing eighty-year-olds about their situations. Talking to him, I can see the benefits from his psychology studies. That, in combination with his respect for his grandparents, makes for very interesting discussions. We are very lucky to have our relationship with him. And very grateful.”
Erik analyzes what makes their relationship work. “For as long as I can remember, my grandparents have reached out to me as an individual,” he says. “My grandmother once said that she was grateful to have grandchildren, because it gave her a new chance—a chance to do things better than she did with her children. What my grandfather said he most appreciated was that this time around, he didn’t have to worry about discipline. Rather, he could focus on having positive interaction. These attitudes are a good basis on which to develop a relationship between grandchild and grandparents.”
Liv has five grandchildren. I’ve focused on Liv’s relationship with Erik because he is at the stage where he is examining himself and the role of others in his development. When I began exploring this question about Liv’s impact, her four granddaughters were between the ages of fifteen and eighteen. “They are too busy being teenagers to engage in this kind of introspection,” Liv explained, “but my husband and I are similarly connected to them all. We see how different they are, now that they are young women: exuberant, shy, humorous, devoted or straightforward. Every relation is unique. We bear that in mind when they are with us.”
Liv says that when her grandchildren were very young, she told them to think of themselves as a house. She would illustrate her point using building blocks. “You are this house,” she would say. “And one day, you will grow to be a tall, beautiful building. But first, you need to build your foundation. For that, you need work, dedication and discipline. If your foundation is solid, one day you might be a skyscraper and reach for the stars.”
When I ask Liv to describe the legacy she will leave her grandchildren, here is her reply: “I trust they will remember me for as long as it makes sense to remember my values. They might remember how to build a solid skyscraper, and, very important, how to sing a song.”
Mentors and their protegés have a significant potential to influence one another in a life-changing way. The mentoring relationship might start as an informal connection inspired by proximity or shared interests. Maybe the girl next door shows an interest in learning about your career, or your friend’s son asks for some pointers in your area of expertise. You might have the chance to participate in a formal mentoring program set up by your professional organization or your company to accelerate learning and open doors. In the case of Henry and Derek, whose story you’ll read about next, it was a chance connection that brought them together. Their mentoring relationship bound them in a way that changed them both and sealed their legacies.
Their story began seven years ago, when Derek flew home from the UK after serving two years of a five-year prison sentence at a young offenders institution. A few weeks after his return, Derek would meet Henry, the eighty-year-old man who would become his mentor. Their relationship would give Derek the confidence, the strategies and the contacts he needed to remake his life. And the benefits would flow both ways. Through supporting Derek, Henry would understand his own past and reach back to comfort his younger self.
Derek was nineteen years old when he returned home. “There were many questions which kept me up at night,” he says. “How will I reintegrate into society? What will I do for the rest of my life? Will I be able to get a job? How will I deal with those who want to condemn me because of my past? Will I still be able to fulfill my dreams? My biggest fear was that I would never recover from my fall from grace.”
Relationships like this often need a catalyst, and in this case, it was Henry’s daughter, Judith. “For years, I’d heard about Derek from his grandmother,” she recalls. “She was raising her two grandchildren on her own, and Derek, who was in high school then, was her pride and joy. I hadn’t met him but I’d heard about his excellent grades and great work ethic. There was no place to study at home, so he’d go into town and sit in a fast-food restaurant and do his homework and prepare for exams late into the night. He was doing so well that their church group planned to support his studies after high school. But then he was arrested for smuggling drugs into the UK.”
At the request of Derek’s grandmother, Judith met with Derek when he came home. “I was surprised to meet this well-spoken, articulate young man, and I wanted to support him. I started inviting him to get-togethers at my home and worked with him on some writing proposals. But I really wanted Dad to meet him. I had grown up watching Dad mentor other talented young men and I knew he had much to offer Derek. So, the next time Dad visited, I organized a party and invited Derek. After watching him in action, Dad was able to see what I saw in Derek.”
Derek remembers that first gathering with Henry and Judith’s friends—people who were the country’s movers and shakers. “I longed to be a part of their conversations,” he recalls. “People were talking about the inner workings of how things are done in the real world—politics, society, life, art. These were things I had studied and these people had actually been a part of it. I was like a sponge soaking up all this knowledge. My stratum of society was very different, so the conversations I was used to having were different, and I had never had the opportunity to meet this kind of people.”
Henry remembers Derek’s excitement at being exposed to this world. “There were a lot of very impressive people at the party,” Henry recalls. “As people were telling their stories, Derek’s jaw dropped, and he said afterwards, ‘This is a whole world that I had no idea about.’ I was struck by his articulateness. He’d been able to connect with people and start to talk. He had this incredible intellectual curiosity.” Both Henry and Derek remember that something clicked between them. “There was a connection between us which I couldn’t quite put my finger on,” Derek says. “Henry has often repeated that at that meeting, he instinctively knew there was something special about me, and he wanted to help me in whatever way he could.”
As they got to know one another, Henry began to see in Derek a young man with tremendous creative ability who had difficulty focusing his talents. “I knew he was a good actor; I knew he was a good dancer; I knew he wanted to write; I knew he was working on his diploma in English. It was like seeing a kid who’s holding all kinds of balloons. They’re all floating up there but I’m not getting a feeling of how he’s going to pull them down.”
But Henry knew that Derek was hindered by more than lack of focus. “I could sense his feeling that he would never succeed in the way my friends had. There was baggage there that was preventing him from getting on with what he wanted to do. Until he got to the point where he could tell his story, I felt he would be locked in. So, my mission was to pull and pull and pull.” Derek remembers his frustration with Henry during that period. “I’d never told my story,” Derek says. “And in Henry’s persistent way, he kept asking me questions, asking hard, tough questions that I needed to answer for myself. But I was afraid. It was hard to come face-to-face with myself and what had happened. And I didn’t know how to move on from there. During one of these sessions, I walked out on Henry. I couldn’t take it anymore.”
Henry soon found his chance to help Derek get unstuck. “I’d invited a very distinguished author and some other creative, dynamic types to join Derek and me for lunch,” Henry recalls. “We were sitting on my veranda and I could see that Derek was transfixed by their stories. And suddenly I said, ‘So Derek, tell us your story.’ And for the next ninety minutes, it was as though a dam had burst. He talked non-stop about his life—about growing up, about what had happened in England and why he did what he did. By the end, the listeners were in tears. I got goosebumps. It was at this point that I realized we had in our midst—what I had long suspected—a really gifted young man, capable of doing anything.”
Derek looks back on the event as a bit of a set-up, but he was glad of the outcome. “I knew this author was coming to lunch to discuss my writing,” he says, “and I thought it would be just me. But there were eight or ten people. I had met a couple of them a few days earlier, and I didn’t even know the others—so, essentially, they were a bunch of strangers. We’re all having lunch and chit-chatting and then Henry says, “Young master would like to speak now.” And this was not part of the plan. My first instinct was to refuse. But I thought, ‘I have to do it sometime, somehow. I can’t keep living in fear of my past. I can’t live with these elephants in the room because they’re going to kill me.’ So, I said I was ready and I started to speak. And then you couldn’t stop me. I didn’t make eye contact with anyone because I was ashamed. I expected them to judge and condemn me because I’d grown to expect that for someone with a past like mine. But when I finished, I raised my head and saw that almost everyone was in tears. And then they commended me for my courage and for being able to endure that experience—and not only to endure it but to be able to speak of it and to be able to pull myself up. They said things like, ‘You haven’t kept yourself down.’ ‘You’re doing all right for yourself, man.’ ‘Give yourself some credit for not staying down.’ So as much as I had avoided it, I believe speaking about my experience was necessary. I had to cross that barrier. It gave me the motivation to move on.
“After that, Henry and I kind of planned the way forward as to where my skills were most suited and where I needed help and assistance. And I think we kind of merged his ideas and my ideas and my dreams to find something of a direction—something that would help me lead a dignified life, a life worth living.”
Throughout the mentoring process, Henry has given Derek practical life strategies and techniques, along with personal connections. And he keeps the pressure on. “One of the qualities I really appreciate about Henry, though it also annoys me,” Derek says, “is that he continually pushes me to exceed my own expectations and face my fears. His nudging, which can be uncomfortable, is constant and I know that ultimately, his relentlessness is helpful. He refuses to give up on me, even when I give up on myself.”
Henry says this “push and push back” sets up a creative tension that is the foundation of his mentoring approach. Derek agrees. “Our relationship is multi-faceted, and not without its struggles,” he says. “Many times, Henry and I don’t see eye to eye and sometimes we agree to disagree. I appreciate that in those instances, he chooses to respect my opinions. He does not enforce his will on me despite the fact that he has over eighty years of experience under his belt. Instead, he finds creative ways to teach me.”
Judith can see the results of her dad’s approach. “Derek had to realize he had everything he needed to succeed except for belief in himself,” she says. “The experiences he’s had with Dad have given him confidence. He saw that he could hold his own in any setting and be accepted as an equal based on the strength of his intelligence, talent and wonderful personality. He understands that he is as worthy of opportunities as anyone else. He knows he holds the key to his own success.”
When Henry reflects on the mentoring process, he realizes that what was happening to him was as important as what Derek was going through. “I had spent my entire life packaging away things that I didn’t want to deal with—my own growing up and the loneliness I felt, and the rejection,” he says. “Derek pushed me into looking at myself and it was an incredible, liberating experience.”
Henry and Derek call their relationship their “extraordinary 80/20 journey,” referring to their age difference, and I ask Judith what she thinks is the key to its success. She says her father has become the positive male role model Derek never had. “Prior to this,” she says, “the only older male figures in his life were his and his sister’s absent fathers, and his uncles. And it was the uncles who brought him into the drug world and coerced him into smuggling drugs into the UK. So, to have an older male figure like Dad take an interest in him in a meaningful way must have meant the world to him. I think Dad’s greatest gift to Derek was never giving up on him.”
The cement that holds the 80/20 relationship together is their love for one another. A few months ago, Derek sent a thank you note to Henry. “I am grateful for you and the wisdom that you’ve shared with me,” he wrote. “I am grateful that you have never given up on me. I am grateful for your kindness and generosity. I am grateful for your love. This is just a gentle reminder that I thank God that you are a part of my life, and I love ya ole fella. I love ya very much.” Henry replied, “You have done as much for me as you say I have done for you. Ours is a story of love and understanding and respect for each other, which, if others followed, would make this world a better place.”
Since Derek’s return from the UK, he has won awards for his acting and has worked as a dancer, singer and choreographer. He has written a play based on his time in prison and is writing a memoir about his experiences. When I ask him about his goals for the future, he focuses on mentoring. “I want to lead, to inspire people and help them reach their best and highest potential, in whatever way I can. I am an artist, so perhaps it’s through my art. At the end of the day, titles and money go. What is left is the memory and the impact you’ve had on others. I hope to continue a legacy of hope for those who need to be encouraged and inspired.”
Some people leave their legacy by making a deep and meaningful connection with countless people they encounter every day. This was the case for Peter Verin, who was living on the streets of Victoria, BC, in 2017 when he died just short of his seventy-second birthday. Verin collected recyclables in shopping carts, slept where he could find shelter, and was always ready to stop for a philosophical discussion. People say he would have been taken aback to find that his life had been memorialized with a granite bench bearing the title “Our Philosopher King.” The carved tribute reads: “You touched all our hearts. We were blessed to know you.”
Many members of Verin’s broad and diverse social network found out about one another after his death. According to the Times Colonist, the crowd that showed up at his memorial service included “a retired UVic vice-president, students, librarians, Saanich police officers, paramedics, baristas, grocery clerks, city workers, politicians, hairdressers and several homeless people.”1 When a couple of these friends launched a fundraising effort to create some permanent commemoration for Verin, they never imagined they would raise $3,400. They had enough money for the bench, a plaque and some left over to be donated to organizations that help homeless people.
Technically, Verin was homeless, but this was not how he saw himself. David Turner, a retired University of Victoria professor, says that from Verin’s point of view, “he was living a particular free-spirit lifestyle.” Turner first met Verin in the early 1970s when Verin was roaming the university campus, pulling textbooks from garbage bins and chatting up students at the library. “He was kind of a live-in professor,” says Turner.2 It was true that Verin had some academic training—he had studied philosophy in his twenties at McGill University—but he called himself a “professional salvager,” recycling things others threw away in an effort to mediate the carelessness of our wasteful society.
Verin’s random encounters delighted and affected people, as we can see in the following Facebook posting from someone who ran across him in 2014: “To the homeless man named Peter who is always around Quadra/Mckenzie area, shout out to you for being one of the most humble and intelligent people I’ve ever talked to! Today at the bottle depot we offered you $10 and the only thing you’d accept was our bottles because you said it made you feel better working for your money. You’re so friendly and I hear you’re good at recommending books to people! If anyone sees a shorter and older man with a bit of a hunchback around the area I’m sure he’d appreciate your bottles!”3
Verin spent his evenings at the local library reading magazines, using the computers and listening to podcasts. The librarian Delia Filipescu said that Verin gave her a different perspective about people living on the streets. “He had a knowledge I never expected. I was the librarian but he was answering the questions. Wherever you are, Peter, we are missing you,” she said. 4
Greg Pratt, editor of Nexus, Camosun College’s student newspaper, remembers running into Verin from the time he was a kid, and his shopping cart was always full of salvaged stuff, including lots of reading material. “He was always happy to stop and talk philosophy or some other academic matter, and he always wanted to learn what the other person had to say.” Pratt wrote the following tribute in his Nexus memorial to Verin: “His charming demeanour and encyclopedic knowledge will be missed; the lesson he leaves behind about living life on your own terms will not be forgotten.” 5
Our life story is part of our legacy, and the next chapter looks at how we record that story and the way we craft our version of the truth. Let’s consider the stories you’ve just read. In the case of those who are deceased, I summarized their lives from their biographies and personal writings, which are a matter of public record. When it comes to the living, either their stories have received media attention or I interviewed them and formed their stories from their accounts of their lives. If we don’t figure out a way to capture our own lives, we’re missing an opportunity to put our imprint in the history books. Disappearing without a trace may not be the worst outcome. As you’ll read in the next chapter, it may be more troubling if someone else writes our story.