27 June 2026
While stupidity reigns and I finished The Stand, here I go writing again.
Because Trump posted on Truth social that he "hardly ever poops his pants", and people just yell and nobody listens. And they're doing baptisms on the national mall. Christian Nationalism is doing its damndest to destroy our country.
So.
Way back in 2002, I had decided to start subbing. I worked at my alma matter GMHS in theatre for Barb-who had taken over when Bud retired-and lang arts for Kathy Starkey. Kathy had been my lang arts teacher Back In The Day. I subbed elsewhere but they are not part of this story.
But subbing doesn't come with insurance benefits, so I decided I'd try to teach. My children were in kindie and second grade when I made the decision. I loved staying at home, but we had moved and expenses were increasing. The why is not important, nor a question educators like to answer in faculty meetings. This is how.
I had my BA and sub license, and I had worked in enough buildings to know high school was my jam. Either lang arts or theatre was good with me. But I didn't have my teaching license. So I did some research and learned about the TIR program at Metro. The catch was you had to get hired as a teacher in a building first, and then you could enter the program. It was the only way around the horrible and financially impossible student teaching requirement. Nobody should work for free---ever. But here we are.
These were the early years of desktops and limited internet. I found two theatre openings in two buildings, Littleton and Ponderosa. Ponderosa's online application required a teaching license number just to apply, with no way to contact HR or ask questions. I had no such number because I did not have my license. Littleton did not require the license number, and the application could be printed and snail mailed to HR.
And that's how that happened.
It was much more difficult, but it's fine. Not the point of the story.
This story is about the teachers who circled back into my life more than once, qualifying them as how I became a teacher.
Peter Melbach
Melbach was my high school history teacher. One of the smartest humans I've ever met. He told the truth, he taught real history and he held us accountable. Because of him I understand colonialism, El Salvador in the 1980's, I can identify countries on a map and knew about the Red Scare and the real definition of communism. Many of the people writing about politics today are history professors who, rightfully, are losing their shit.
I flunked his class when I left my world map project on a bus during a concert choir tour. He essentially said "Thank sucks". I never forgot my homework again.
In 1999 I was attempting to launch my own theatre company, raise two children and worked at My Brother's Bar in Denver. Melbach was a semi regular. Because I assume I am invisible, or at least not memorable, I did not initiate any contact outside of delivering his beer. But he recognized me and we struck up a few brief exchanges. Most of them centered around his thesis "When are you going to become a teacher?"
"I don't want to be a teacher."
"You are, I've always known it. You've always been a teacher. Let me know when you figure it out."
In 2012 while I was at the Boettcher---wait, you may not know what a Boettcher Scholarship is. Students in Colorado apply for the scholarship, which pays 100% of their tuition and housing for four years at any Colorado university. Students who are awarded the scholarship "share" their Boettcher with one of their teachers. It's usually an IB techer, AP math or science teacher, as those are the kids who generally win. Occasionally it's an elective teacher-say choir from a Cherry Creek School. It is rarely a theatre teacher. The teacher gets $1,000 for their department and attends the ceremony. It is a very generous prize.
My theatre student had been awarded the Boettcher and chose to share it with me. So I was at The Thing at the Botanic Gardens. We were all seated as our students read words about us and presented us with a plaque.
Guess whose name was read?
Peter Melbach.
So I hunted him down and smiled grandly. My husband Jim compared it to Spicoli and Mr. Hand meeting years later. If you don't know the reference, trust that I looked like an idiot grinning at Melbach.
He said "Hey, you're a teacher!"
I sighed and smiled. Dammit, he called it.
I awkwardly replied "And I have a Boettcher, just like you." Because I had no idea how to respond. "Yes" would have been a reasonable response, but no. I had to say something idiotic.
He shrugged "It's my fifth one."
Of course it is.
And of course he fell into a casual conversation with me like we were...colleagues. He told me about the book he wanted to write, and that he was going to retire. Just like I was a regular person. Not a waiter, not a student. A regular person worthy of conversation.
We had a lovely chat, took a photo and I haven't seen him since.
My Boettcher is on the wall downstairs. I walk past it daily and smile.
Steve Meinenger
Meinenger was my high school choir teacher at GMHS. He smoked in the choir office with the band teacher, a story that blows kids' minds these days. He retired from teaching but his legacy in Denver high school choral music is massive. The choir and band teachers at Littleton knew Meinenger. He was all over CHSSA and an All State Judge, and probably All State President, and he worked in some way the the music program at Metro and possibly UNC. For all I know he invented educational music. He's a Very Big Deal.
In or around 2011, Littleton's band teacher crossed the hall to 146 (backstage/my classroom) to confirm that I'd attended GMHS and that Meinenger had been my choir teacher. I had no idea why he was asking.
Turns out Meinenger in his Very Big Deal status was going to be in our building to work with the band teacher On A Thing. The band teacher, Don, said "I have an idea". He was always full of ideas, a delightful light hearted prankster-y and relentlessly positive man- I frequently hated him. Why are you happy, stop it. I try to destroy those people regularly.
I really am that miserable.
Anyway, he said "I'm going to pretend you're a problem, like we can't work together at all, and ask him to come meet you and give me advice." This was the opposite of true, as we worked well together and I only had to poke him in the eye with my mohawk once.
"Why?" I honestly had no idea why this was a good plan.
"It'll be funny. He'll meet you and remember you and it will be a reunion."
"That's a big assumption. He's had thousands of students, I haven't seen him since high school. There is no reason to believe he will remember me."
"Seriously? Do you not know who you are? He'll remember."
So on the assigned day, he brought Meinenger across the hall to "meet" me. He opened the door and ushered him in. Meinenger was looking at Don-who is at least six feet tall- the whole time, he didn't look up at me until Don was finished talking. He said "This is Mrs. Martin, our theatre teacher." Then, in an exaggerated and unsuccessful stage whisper, " The one I told you about. We're having problems with her."
Meinenger looked up at me. He always had to look up due to his short stature-not unlike a gnome-but he seemed to have shrunk. His ice blue eyes peered at me through his squinty face. His blonde hair had turned grey. I just looked at him and smiled. In my head I was running through all of the ways to introduce myself and remind him who I am and explain that Don thought this would be funny.
It took him three seconds of eye contact before he said "Wyckoff, you got old!" and started cackling.
Bud Simmons
Bud was my high school theatre teacher. I've written of him often. Not just because he was as mean as a snake, but because in so many ways he shaped how I teach. And there's the whole "opened the door to theatre" part of it too, but whatever. Nobody cares. Nothing happens, nobody comes.
Bud and his wife Janet communicated with me primarily through emails. I had not seen him with my eyeballs in years by the time I directed my first musical The Pirates of Penzance at Littleton in 2009. I do not recall inviting him directly, which feeds the mystical idea that he Just Knew and showed up. I did not know he was coming, and completely melted down when I saw him. I couldn't speak, I just jabbered and drooled, much to the amusement of the music director who had a front row seat to the show titled "Kmart Comes Apart" at the lobby doors.
When Bud finally went in to take his seat, Farrell asked me-through a tight smile- what was going on. I sobbed "My dad is here", and then immediately blubbered that he's not my dad dad, he's my theatre dad but ya he was like my dad and his opinion is everything to me and I can't believe he's here and I have no idea what I'm doing pardon me I have to throw up." Farrell watched the opening scene in Act 2 of "Kmart Comes Apart" and then smartly walked away.
I paced the lobby the entire show and have no memory of seeing Bud at intermission. I will put money on me hiding. That tracks.
After the show, Bud found me and crushed my bones with his hug. I couldn't speak. He smiled and said "You know, they aren't supposed to walk and talk at the same time," with that crazy predator smile and those mirthfilled eyes.
I said "Did you just give me a note old man?" I was again crushed, this time the last of my tears were squeezed from me.
Kathy Starkey
Kathy was my creative writing teacher at Green Mountain. I also had her for 10th regular lang arts- Big Chiefs were our journals. And when I started subbing, she started calling. She was teaching AP( or at least some higher level) at the time, and I loved subbing her classes. They were smart kids but not assholes about being smart. I subbed for a year, and then she retired the following year when I started at Littleton.
The TIR program has you take classes on Monday nights while you're teaching during the day for year one, and year two you are assigned a mentor teacher who gets you across the finish line. This teacher does observations, checks boxes in paperwork and makes sure your license application is in the clear.
The summer after year one, when my Monday night teacher was "Stu" who apparently was a former colleague of another Littleton lang arts teacher so I was double supported, I received a phone call from Kathy Starkey.
She asked if I knew why she was calling. Since it was A) summer and B) she had retired, I was at a loss. She said plainly "I am a mentor teacher at Metro now, through the TIR. Sweetheart, you've been assigned to me." She laughed, "I'm your teacher mentor!"
I'll let that one settle. That's the biggest slam dunk true "sign" a person could ever encounter. The rest of the connections are supporting cast to this main character. When I have doubts---and I Have Doubts---about becoming a teacher, I remember how this happened. Who else has a story like this in their world?
I consider these all "HOW" not "WHY". Why is introspective, how is a verb. I encountered real moments, had in person conversations and impressive connections were made. That's not why I teach. I answered that question already: health insurance. These exchanges are how it came to pass. Because without these touchstones, I do not believe I would have followed through at all.
This post was likely triggered by a dinner invite from K.Starkey via my high school friend Mike. I do not have a "come to my house for dinner" relationship with ...many people. But certainly not my high school lang arts teacher and TIR mentor. I assume I was invited as an afterthought, or an accident. You read my previous words, you know I choose to be invisible whenever possible and assume that tactic is working. I get dysregulated when I am unexpectedly seen. It troubles me, and my go to is that it was a mistake. I do not do curtain speeches and our final candle moments are only structured by me, I rarely speak. I cannot function without a script and I do not like to be the center of attention.
You can stop making that face. If you know me, you know it's true. I was an actor so I could Be Somebody Else. And I need a script. If I'm comfortable at home in a social situation, I will stage manage, absolutely. But I won't perform. I've always been awkward and stand offish. Which some people would call "shy" and others would call "rude". Depends on the people watching. I leave it open to their interpretation because frankly, I have no idea which one is correct.
But that's another story.
Two and a half decades after I started subbing, I'm still teaching. I don't know "why", but I can tell you "how"; I decided to follow the signs that told me to teach.
Scene.
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