Mentors by Michael A. Black

Thank God for mentors. They’re special people. I’ve been very fortunate in my life to have had many good ones. Looking back, it’s doubtful that I would have made it without them.

Growing up I was fortunate to have the right kinds of friends. My friends and I lived in a close-knit neighborhood, and although one of the kids in my class, who lived across the alley from me, was murdered when we were in the fifth grade, crime was relatively minor. Well, my buddy’s little brother and his friends also found a dead body in a quarry down the street from us. But one of the men who lived across the alley was a police officer, so knowing that pretty much kept us in line. I give my dad a lot of credit for mentoring me and some of the neighborhood kids. He was active in the Boy Scouts, as was the father of another one of my buddies, Mr. Harold Strohm, who took us on our first small craft airplane ride. They were men’s men, and led by example.

I’d like to credit some of my teachers in Grammar school and high school as being mentors as well, but I can’t think of a single one who would be even remotely qualified. My sixth grade teacher literally tore up one of my short stories in front of the entire class. I still remember the furious look on her face as she did it. After school I waited around and fished it out of the garbage. None of them really encouraged me, but in fairness, I was far from an ideal student. During grammar school I was constantly being bullied by my older classmates. Classes were so crowded and disorderly, I remember one instance where the punk who sat in front of me got out of his seat, pinned me in my desk, and head-butted me three times. The teacher was engaged with other students and didn’t even notice. I had a goose egg on the side of my head the size of pair of grapes.

All this bullying led my father to buy me a set of weights and enroll me in judo classes. The dojo was on the south side of Chicago, and I’d credit my first sensei, Gene Wyaka, with being one of my first mentors. Gene took an interest in all of his students. I studied with him for years and won several trophies at tournaments, and gained the self-confidence I needed to begin to fight back. At the end of my freshman year in high school, I was goaded into a fight with a big upperclassman. It was as if all those past transgressions came to the surface. I beat the guy with a fury that I still regret to this day. As I’ve said before, nobody wins a fight.

College came next and once again, only a few my professors could qualify in the mentor department. Most of them were too caught up in their own egos, and cared little about the constant flow of students through their classes. I do treasure the handful of them who took an interest in me and helped me through this rough period in my life. I can think of two, Mary Sue Schriber and James McNeice, who took the time to help me become a better writer. Well, Orville Baker was supportive, too.

After college Uncle Sam came calling… Duty, honor, country… It was in the Army that I learned the true meaning of leadership, “the art of leading and directing men to accomplish the mission,” and brotherhood. I served with numerous NCOs and officers who became my next set of mentors. Their names are imbedded in my memory forever, as we stood shoulder to shoulder together in a foreign land: Captain Brauner, Lieutenant Lynch, Lieutenant Stubenval, Sergeants Mills, Hollshaugher, Duvall, Odin, Welch, Hill, and Howard to name a few. They were all good men who took the time to pass on the fruits of their most valuable experience. As time passed, I was promoted to sergeant and became a mentor for the constant flow of newbies. I took pride in the role and did my best to emulate those who had taught me.

Since I spent my Army years as an MP, it was only natural that I became a cop after my discharge. Once again, I found a camaraderie among the ranks of my fellow officers, and many of my supervisors. (I’m not going to name any of them because I still have close ties to the department) As the years passed, I got promoted to sergeant and it was my turn to become a mentor once again. Helping someone else avoid the mistakes that I’d made was what it was all about. Sharing my experiences, while letting them find their own way, was something that my mentors had done for me.

I could talk here about grad school or the usage of my GI Bill to pick up degrees in criminal justice and Spanish, but I won’t. Dr. Len Jellema, one of the professors I met in my second college experience, turned out to be one of my greatest friends and mentors. He helped show me the way as far as fiction writing.

I’ve had many more mentors as far as my writing goes as well. Writers, especially mystery writers, are a generous lot. The help and advice that some of them gave me helped me develop my style and find my voice. Again, it’s better that I refrain from naming anyone specifically, but they know who they are. I’ve since stepped into the mentoring role to help new writers, and I’ve tried to incorporate the things I’ve learned into the creative writing courses I teach. Hopefully, I’ll be able to continue with some form of the mentoring role. It’s a way to give something back.

Comments

[Jean]

Thanks for sharing this. Really.

[Ellen Kirschman]

You give a great deal back. You never fail to respond to anyone's email, including mine. Now I know where you got those shoulders.

[Mar Preston]

Sometimes you find your own way despite...

[Ann]

You are so inspiring, Mike! Thanks for sharing your experiences as a mentoree and a mentor! :-)

[camille minichino]

Let me get my hands on that teacher who tore up *anything* one of her students wrote.

Except I've now learned, from your post, that nobody wins a fight.

Thanks for that.

[Staci]

What a great post, Mike. I'm appalled by the teacher who tore up your story and had the same experience you did in regards to college professors who were only focused on themselves. But at least you found some wonderful mentors after that, and you've become a great mentor yourself.

[Michael A. Black]

Don't be too hard on my former teacher. I was pretty hurt at the time, but she provided me with the topic for an essay I wrote in a Writer's Digest anthology titled, How I Got Published. I called it "A Sixth Grade Education." ;-)