Dear Mr. Meisner

I feel very fortunate that there were a number of teachers I had during my childhood who made a real difference in my young life. Naturally, they probably never knew this, as the lessons they passed on were only recognizable with the passing of many years. One of those teachers was William Meisner, who passed away last week at the grand old age of 94.

Mr. Meisner taught English in his 30+ years at Carlton High School, though I dare say Shakespeare was probably his favorite. I had the good luck to be in the last Shakespeare class Mr. Meisner ever taught in the Spring of 1984, his final year at CHS. He was unforgettable. Even now I can see him at his desk reading one of the parts from any number of plays, his hands gesturing, his chin jutting out, his words transformed by the characters he portrayed.

In a bold move on my part, I tracked Mr. Meisner down to a Cloquet nursing home two summers ago because I wanted to give him a copy of the book I wrote, Addie Braver. In that story, Mr. Meisner appeared (fictionalized) as a young English teacher at Lost Elm High School. Our impromptu meeting was brief, but I'll never forget the way his motorized recliner whirred to a ninety degree angle when I told him that he was in the book. I read aloud the passage Mr. Meisner was in, hoping that even a little of my admiration for him was conveyed in this fictional version of himself. I'll never know for sure, though a grunt or two from Mr. Meisner during the reading gives me hope even now.

So, in honor of Mr. Meisner and his lasting legacy, what follows is the excerpt from Addie Braver that includes him. I hope it captures the essence of this wonderful teacher. And I hope he knew--whether it was near the end of his life or more than three decades ago--how much he mattered to those students who loved him. 

   

    “Brian Lawrence?”

    “Here.”

    “Susan Nystrom?”

    “Present.”

    “Anna Olson?”

    “Here.”

    “Jacob Pearson?”

    “Yo.”

    “Jacob Pearson?”

    “Here.”

    “William Travers.”

    “It’s Will, sir.”

   Bill Meisner scanned his class roster and compared it to the sixteen juniors seated before him. He highly doubted Intro to Shakespeare had been anyone’s first choice at last fall’s class registration.  But that didn’t matter to Mr. Meisner. He loved William Shakespeare. When he was offered the English job at Lost Elm High School three years earlier, he’d asked for only thing—a chance to teach The Bard’s plays. The principal had been in no position to bargain with the passionate young teacher. Mr. Meisner was his only applicant.

    “For the next twelve weeks,” he announced to the class, pausing for effect, “William Shakespeare is going to seep into the very marrow of your bones. At first his plays will sound like gibberish in your ears, but then there will come a moment . . .” Mr. Meisner paused again, his rich baritone punctuating each word. “Then there will come a moment when his words and genius will fall so neatly into place that you will wonder how you didn’t understand him from the start. Mark my words,” he concluded, jabbing a finger repeatedly at four rows of desks. “It has happened before. It will happen again.”

    Most of the class stared at their desks as his words sank in, but three students didn’t. Anna and Will looked right at him. She seemed a little terrified, but Mr. Meisner knew he could work on that. The Travers kid was a bit of a surprise, though he was encouraged by the thinly veiled intensity in the boy’s eyes. The same couldn’t be said for the third student, Jacob Pearson.

    “Marrow of your bones?” Jake sneered. “Bill, is that your bone or mine?”

    There’s always one, Mr. Meisner reminded himself. He came out from behind his desk, sensing none of the tension the students were feeling after Jake’s blatant disrespect. With his Roman nose and jutting chin, Mr. Meisner looked like a patrician about to address the Imperial Senate. He anchored his wide frame to the ground and clasped his hands behind his back.

    “Who here has heard of a man named Shylock?”

    Will’s hand rose uncertainly. “Isn’t he in The Merchant of Venice?”

   Mr. Meisner hadn’t expected anyone to answer the question, much less correctly. “Very good, Mr. Travers,” he nodded. “Shylock is a man surrounded by hypocrites. In the play, these people justify their prejudice against him because of how badly they expect he will treat them in return.”

   “What’s your point?” Jake said with naked petulance. He searched the room for allies, but found none.

    “The point,” Mr. Meisner said with relish, “Is this. From The Merchant of Venice, Act III, Scene 1: If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? Well, Mr. Pearson, shall I?”

   A mischievous smile crept up around the corners of Will’s mouth. Whatever doubts he had about William Shakespeare or William Meisner were gone. Wrong us, shall we not revenge? How cool is that?! He looked at Jake, who vaguely understood that the unflappable man standing before them had made his point.

    “You obviously signed up for this class for a reason,” Mr. Meisner said. “Though I can’t imagine what that reason was. Regardless, it is now irrelevant.”

   Jake had been outsmarted and he knew it. He did his best to recover a measure of indifference, but failed. When he turned to his friend for support, Will never looked his way.

   “That is your cue to leave, Mr. Pearson,” Mr. Meisner said, gesturing toward the door. “I’ll let the office know you’re on your way to sign up for a class better suited to your level of interest.”

     Jake stood, his desk scraping across the floor. He looked at Anna two rows over. He hadn’t wanted to be there in the first place, but figured having a class with her might help him break through the simple friendship they’d had since junior high. And now this, Jake thought, unwilling to shoulder any of the blame for his sudden removal.

     “Fine,” he surrendered. “You coming, Will?”

    Catch you later, Jake, Will thought, though he said nothing. Instead, he looked at Mr. Meisner and got the distinct feeling he was being sized up somehow. Never taking his eyes off the man, Will shook his head.

     “Suit yourself,” Jake said and skulked from the room.

   “Now that we’ve gotten the pleasantries out of the way,” Mr. Meisner announced, sensing the students’ collective relief, “Let’s talk about William Shakespeare.”

     He was right. For the first few weeks of class Shakespeare's plays might as well have been written in a foreign language, on another planet, in a distant galaxy. Old English words like anon and bequeath floated just beyond the students’ reach. Plots and plot twists were lost in betwixt and besmirch. They slogged through the intrigue of Julius Caesar and the comic deception of Much Ado About Nothing. “It will come,” Mr. Meisner insisted. “Understanding will come.” Eventually in fits and starts, it did. By the time the class turned to Act I, Scene I of The Taming of the Shrew, he knew they were on the verge of a breakthrough.

   Will and Anna’s march from strangers to friends followed much the same path as their grasp of Shakespeare. His growing awareness of the quiet, fair-skinned Anna proved to be a daily distraction. More than once Will lost his place reading lines, only to receive amused reminders from Mr. Meisner. “Sorry, sir—Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.”

   Though they had been classmates since first grade, Will couldn’t recall ever having anything but a casual conversation with Anna. But when the characters in Much Ado About Nothing donned their disguises for the scene at the masquerade ball, Will shed his mask and began a quiet, but earnest courtship. Slowly, Anna reciprocated his attention. Day after day, he approached her locker and they talked about the latest play they were reading or whatever other excuse Will could think of. Soon, short conversations lengthened beyond their lockers and continued down the hall. By the time Mr. Meisner assigned parts for the class’s reading of The Taming of The Shrew, Will had made up his mind. He would ask Anna to prom.

    “Mr. Travers, I would like you to read the part of Petruchio,” Mr. Meisner chuckled. “It shouldn’t be much of a stretch.” He peered over his glasses and scanned the room until he zeroed in on Anna. “Miss Olson, forgive me. What I am about to say may be a false assumption, but here it goes. You are most definitely not a Kate, but I still want you to read her part.”

    “Why am I not a Kate?” Anna asked, skimming through the cast of characters.

    “Well, do you like being taken for granted?” Mr. Meisner asked off-handedly.

    “No,” she said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

   “Good. Neither does Kate. She is an outspoken woman who wants nothing to do with our friend Petruchio here.” He gestured to a red-faced Will.

    Mr. Meisner walked back and forth as he spoke, the wood floors creaking under his feet. Though he was addressing Anna, he made eye contact with every other girl in the classroom, searching for some flicker of recognition that they understood what he was discreetly trying to tell them. Speak up, ladies! Dream for yourselves. Find your own futures.

    “Under all those manners of yours, Miss Olson, may lie the same strength and spirit as our fiery Kate. Find that fire within yourself and read it like the woman I just described,” he urged, waving his well-worn copy in the air. “Tell our scheming Petruchio how you really feel.”

      Farewell, Mr. Meisner. You live on in our memories.