I grew up in Tallahassee and was blessed to attend SAIL, one of the best high schools there. I won't go into detail, but I credit the school for saving my life back then. Okay, maybe not the school itself, but the friends I made and especially the teachers I met while there kept me moving forward.
On Friday, May 30, one of my former English teachers will be retiring after a significant career at SAIL. It's a big moment, not just for him, but for the generations of students who were lucky enough to sit in his classroom, get handed a novel they'd never heard of, and come away changed because of it.
Before I ever stepped into his classroom, I'd heard the rumors. It was tradition, really—something passed down through the halls by nervous freshmen and wide-eyed transfers: Marlow was tough. Mean, even. Unforgiving. The kind of teacher who'd make you work for every grade and leave you sweating during every presentation. I didn't know what to expect.
To make matters worse, I chickened out on one of our very first assignments of the year: a simple get-to-know-you interview with a classmate. All I had to do was share a little about someone else. But I panicked, waited until the very end, and somehow got away without ever presenting. It felt like a lucky break at the time—kind of ironic now, considering that interviewing people is quite literally what I do for work.
That rocky start made me think his class was going to be a nightmare. I couldn't have been more wrong.
From the first real novel we cracked open to the final days of the school year, when we got to watch "The Simpsons Movie"—a tradition just as sacred as any final exam—Marlow's class became one of the brightest parts of my high school experience. English had always been my favorite subject, but he made it feel even more alive. His classroom was a world of its own. Shelves full of books. Simpsons memorabilia tucked everywhere you looked. Even some "Ren and Stimpy" gear, which immediately tugged on my nostalgia as someone who'd grown up loving those weird, offbeat cartoons like "Angry Beavers" and "Cow and Chicken." His room was a mix of literary reverence and pop culture chaos, and somehow, it worked.
Marlow didn't just assign readings—he introduced them. He gave us stories to debate about, to fall in love with, to wrestle with. We read "Brave New World," a book that would go on to become one of my all-time favorites. We tackled "The Handmaid's Tale" before it had a Hulu adaptation or mainstream attention. "Into Thin Air," "The Da Vinci Code," "Frankenstein"—his reading lists were varied, challenging and just the right kind of weird. So many of the books I first met in his classroom are now permanent fixtures on my personal shelf.
But for all the incredible literature, it's a simple line from a children's movie that's stuck with me the most: "Go around the leaf." Marlow said it often, quoting "A Bug's Life," usually when someone was overwhelmed, frustrated or ready to give up. At the time, it was just another one of his teaching quirks—something you'd laugh about and move on from. But over the years, those four words have become a mantra. When anxiety hits. When plans fall apart. When I feel like the only option is to stop in my tracks and break down—I hear Marlow's voice in my head, telling me to find another way. To go around the leaf.
That line has helped me through more rough patches than I can count. It's just one of the many things I took from his classroom that I still carry with me.
There's so much more I could say about Marlow Matherne, and not nearly enough space on this page to say it all. He wasn't just a teacher—he was one of the people who helped shape who I am, both as a writer and a person. He challenged me, encouraged me, made me laugh, and made me think. He gave me stories that stuck and lessons that went far beyond the page.
So thank you, Marlow, for all of it: the books, the jokes, the quotes, the push to do better, and the quiet encouragement to keep writing.
Thank you for encouraging me to go around the leaf.
I hope retirement brings you the peace, joy and well-deserved rest you've earned. May it also bring plenty of time for reruns, rereads and maybe a few donuts in honor of a certain Springfield resident.
You'll be missed, but your lessons will linger for a lifetime.