I wasn’t planning on writing about this – it was personal. But in the weeks that followed, it stuck with me, and I came to think what I learned from Mr. Lukacs should be shared.
Rex HuppkeUSA TODAY
The last words I spoke to George Lukacs were sincere but woefully delayed: “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Mr. Lukacs was my high school English teacher in the 1980s. He is, in many ways, the reason I write for a living.
In late March, I learned via a social media post that he’s dying, and realized I had never – not in the 30-plus years since graduating – told him what a profound impact he had on my life. I had never thanked him.
So I rushed to track him down, and he graciously carved out time for a call. We caught up recently, we laughed and chatted, condensed decades into minutes, and I told him the things I should have said long ago. In that conversation, there was, appropriately, a final lesson.
Too often we forget to thank those who've helped us along the way
I wasn’t planning on writing about this – it was personal. But in the weeks that followed, it stuck with me, and I came to think what I learned from Mr. Lukacs should be shared.
It’s simple, really: Don’t wait. Don’t wait to thank those who have changed you. Don’t wait to let the teachers, mentors or counselors, the ones who once helped you take the next step, know they made your life better than it would have been without them.
A teacher who changed the way I think
When I entered Mr. Lukacs’ English class in high school, I already had the fundamentals of good writing stamped into my brain. I had learned the form and structure that undergird a strong essay, but it had often felt like someone was teaching me with one hand holding a lid tight on my imagination.
Mr. Lukacs lifted that lid. He was an advocate for young writers letting their freak flags fly. He delighted in creativity and busting some of the previously sacrosanct rules that restrained our inventiveness.
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He sarcastically awarded a gold-painted shovel – the Golden Shovel – to the students who most gloriously and effectively B.S.’d, as in "shoveled the bull----," their way through essays.
Other teachers had kept us grounded because we needed to be. Mr. Lukacs let us soar because we were ready.
High school comes and goes, and we move on
I remember him from high school as a character – affable and kind. His trademark laugh often echoed off the buildings, sounding – and I say this with great reverence – like someone had stepped on a dolphin’s tail.
As high school students often do, I moved on from the foundational teachers who molded and shaped my mind. I grew up, found a career, formed a family and lived. All things good teachers want for their charges. A good life.
And as that good life unfolds, we forget to look back.
A sad announcement that landed like a gut punch
In March, a friend shared a video Mr. Lukacs had posted. It was titled “A Farewell Wave,” words that punched.
I sat on my couch and watched as the now-gray-haired, bespectacled man looked into a camera and said: “Now an endgame has begun. I don’t know how much time I have, but it won’t likely be long.”
Damn it.
He was diagnosed with liposarcoma in 2001. Surgeries and treatment kept him alive, but his students, past and present, kept him going.
"The joy that I derived from interacting with all of you gave me a reason to be alive,” he said in the video.
He continued: “Thank you for making nearly every day of my life a joy. I hope that your lives have been magical. Even more, I hope that you recognize how magical they have been.”
A scramble for a chance to say thanks
I reached out to another past teacher to get Mr. Lukacs' email, then reached out to him asking to speak by phone, writing, “You have, lo these many years, remained a voice in the back of my head as I write.”
We had the chance to talk. I had the chance to tell him how much I owe him for teaching me to love writing and for showing me that I don't need to write like everyone else to be a writer – I just need to be myself and let the writing follow.
When I decided to share this story, I emailed him for permission. He responded, “I’m frankly surprised to be still here.” And he ended with “please write something powerful!”
No pressure.
We can all learn from Mr. Lukacs' final lesson
It’s my hope Mr. Lukacs will be able to read this before he ascends to the great classroom in the sky. (Don’t worry, I think he’d like that joke.)
But more so, I hope others read this and think about reaching back into their past and finding that person they should’ve thanked ages ago. That person who made a difference. That person who mattered.
Remember Jim Valvano: I inherited a cancer gene from my dad. He also left me a game plan to live.
A farewell, a poem and gratitude immeasurable
Mr. Lukacs ended his farewell video quoting the poet Walt Whitman: “And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.”
That’s from Whitman’s epic “Song of Myself.” As much as I will miss Mr. Lukacs, and as much as I appreciate him, I will never forgive him for forcing me to read a 52-part poem.
But I did (sort of … OK, I skimmed part of it), and what struck me was the line preceding the one he quoted: “All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses.”
Onward, Mr. Lukacs. Thank you for the final lesson. (Though I could’ve done without the poetry, if I’m being honest.)
Your student, always,
— Rex
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