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Mr. Reinhardt Tribute Wkgn (West) High School
#1
This former Waukegan Student and Current Writer
Wrote this article about Mr. Reinhardt that flashed me right
back to his class at Waukegan West High School.

Maybe someone else will get the joy out of this that I did.

I also understand his former students will be putting together
a memorial /tribute and scholarship fundraiser for him this spring as well


Tribute to teacher, Renaissance man
Writer Julia Doyle
January 11, 2010

Mr. Reinhardt was among my many high school teachers, and to say he was my favorite would be a lie. Quite frankly, the man scared me. (This coming from a kid who spent eight years in a Catholic school with a lot of discipline and nuns.)
John Reinhardt taught my freshman humanities class as well as a couple of my literature courses during my prep career -- and let me tell you, he could have taught those nuns a thing or two about discipline.

I've thought of him from time to time over the years, but I hadn't spoken with or seen him in more than 17 years until his photo appeared one day last summer on the Web site of our sister publication and my hometown paper, the Lake County News-Sun.
It was shot at Waukegan's Independence Day parade. He was older looking -- 17 years tends to do that to a person -- but he was exactly as I remembered him.

I was saddened to recently discover he passed away suddenly on Christmas Eve.
News of his passing got me to reminiscing about high school.
Mr. Reinhardt had an intimidating presence because he drove his students to settle for nothing but the best and do nothing but their best.

He was known to return papers to students half-graded because he found the number of errors to be unacceptable and would simply stop reading when his patience wore out.
It was rumored he had a red ink pad and a stamp that read "CRAP" that he would use on truly dreadful student essays. Thankfully, I never witnessed this.

He'd taught at Waukegan High School for 30 years before my classmates and I arrived, so he'd heard all the excuses from A to Z and he wasn't buying any of ours, either.
With a distinct voice, which undoubtedly came from years of directing and acting in plays, he had a commanding presence and a wicked sense of humor.

And the man was a creature of habit. He wore the same style shirt, pants and shoes every day. The shirts and pants he said were tailor-made, just the way he liked them, and the shoes -- no matter how cold the weather -- were always worn without socks.
His classroom smelled of the soup he warmed near his desk, his cigarettes, and the Paco Rabanne cologne he'd worn so long that it had permeated the walls, books and furnishings in his classroom. And no matter the time of day, there was always a can of Coca-Cola nearby.
He brought culture to a bunch of teenagers who were enthralled by The Cure, Guns N' Roses, NWA and the New Kids on the Block. And he managed to do so without making it boring.

I recall attending an opera performance of "Romeo and Juliet" on a field trip, and my friend and I had the misfortune -- or so we thought -- of being seated in front of Mr. R. We got a horrible case of the giggles when a large clump of curls from a performer's wig came loose and affixed itself to her derriere.

Worried Reinhardt would tap us on the shoulders and send us to the lobby, I slowly turned around and locked eyes with him. His hand was planted firmly over his mouth and he was shaking, for he was also trying to control his own fit of laughter.

He waved his other hand at me to quietly suggest I turn back around. It seemed like an eternity, but the scene finally ended, the diva -- clump of hair and all -- swept off the stage, and our giggling subsided.

He was his own person, and although he believed in discipline in his classroom, in his own ways, he encouraged his students to express their own sense of individuality through their work.
He had his own sophisticated way of critiquing your classwork, "Noble attempt at mediocrity, Miss Doyle." And his students knew he was upset when he dropped a "Judas Priest" into the discussion.

Without the photo projects he assigned in that humanities class, I doubt I would have developed photography as a hobby.
But for me, it was his work with me as a fledgling writer that has impacted me the most. His careful editing of the five-paragraph themes he assigned and his encouraging words for my creative writing contributed to my decision to pursue a writing career.

As I shared with a former teacher who announced the news of Reinhardt's death on Facebook, "In a way, Mr. Reinhardt was one of my first editors and one of my best. I still apply much of the advice he gave me for my writing to the work I do today."

Mr. R was stern, but I learned later on that he was also quite compassionate.
My junior year, I was a student in Reinhardt's literature class when my mother was killed by a drunken driver. Here was this bear of a man who intimidated me, pulling me aside after class a few months after she died. I thought for sure I had done something wrong.

He explained he would be excusing me from class while our class discussed a story, the title of which I don't recall, and he would be assigning me something else to read.
When I sought a reason, he explained the story the class would be studying included details of an autopsy and he thought it in poor taste to subject me to that, knowing that my mother had been autopsied.

It would be a couple more years before I would learn what this process entailed, and I am so grateful to him for sparing me.
Shortly after his death, a tribute page popped up on Facebook, and I've read with great interest and amusement the memories his former students have of our teacher.

To date, no memorial service has been planned, and it seems fitting that this Renaissance man -- who always did things a little differently -- would have his wake take place in such a nontraditional way.

And I'm sure if he could read our anecdotes, he'd mark them up with his trusty red pen and send them back for revisions.
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