Remembering Mr. Davis

Mr. Davis and I had an odd, polar kind of relationship weirdly mimicking symmetry: I was the worst advisee anyone at Commonwealth ever had to endure, and Mr. Davis was the absolute best advisor. I arrived at Commonwealth with hard-core baggage from earlier in my childhood, spiked with fresh new adolescent rage, and a readiness to jettison my academic future in some outburst of defiance, but Advisor Davis, as I affectionately called him, was having none of it. He met with me weekly—forty-five minutes at a stretch—and showed a deep love and empathy that helped me start fighting for myself and my future. He clearly understood that he was the “safest” target for my misdirected anger: he would endure cascades of tantrum and torment from me and then quietly set me back on track, in his uniquely gentle, soft-spoken way. He even paid the fee for one of my college applications with no “warning,” knowing that I needed a modicum of support. My life is good because of him.

One of the many good things about Commonwealth during my time there was the presence of Eric and Judith, who epitomized everything that made the school such a welcoming, caring, and humane, but also academically rigorous and intense, place to teach and to learn. Eric and Judith were role models for me, both as teachers and as human beings. Every interaction I had with them lifted my spirits and made me proud to work at Commonwealth. Eric Davis was a person who improved the quality of so many lives. The world is a much poorer place without him.

Tom Harsanyi, Former History Teacher

Mr. Davis was, and always will be, one of the defining characters of my life. Commonwealth was not an easy time for me, but Mr. Davis was always willing to help, both academically and personally. I will miss him dearly.

Eric Li ’10

Mr. Davis treated every kid at Commonwealth as his one of students. He was gracious. I remember him always taking the time to give rave reviews about my theater performances. I also remember how he laughed at my Hancock poster: Cookie Monster wants you to bake cookies. It’s the small things that can enrich a student’s experience at school, and I am grateful to have known Mr. Davis.

Lorena Molina Cecchetti ’08

Eric once gave me this advice (as I recall it): “Sometimes you just need to stop class and ask the kids why we are studying this stuff. Students become so caught up in ‘achievement’ that they no longer pay attention to the meaning of what they are learning for their understanding of the world, and they only think about what the teacher might want rather than what a text is telling them.” I felt liberated to follow my instincts and do the unexpected. Some of my best discussions happened when I interrupted the assigned topic to ask that question. Later, Eric gave another version of this story to the whole school, asking, “What is the purpose of success at Commonwealth? Is it to get into the best college, leading to the best career, leading to the best family, house, stuff, leading to the best spot in the best cemetery?” As always, his words were daring, spare, and true.

Barb Grant, Retired History and Latin Faculty

One day, sitting in the lobby on top of the cabinets, I asked Mr. Davis his favorite band. He thought briefly and said, “The Fugs.” It was not an opinion I shared then nor now. Still, the answer filled me with delight, as I think it was intended to do. It reminded me that even in a school of oddballs, he was an oddball. That felt important. Especially as he was enough of an oddball to defend my staying at Commonwealth despite a perpetual state of probation, academic and otherwise. I was always, uh, fugging up; he decided to make the oddball case for me, and stood by it. I was deeply grateful then, and remain so now; it was a true kindness at a time when I needed that more than I knew. A million small acts make a life, and Eric’s acts of persistent generosity are part of what made mine. His capacity for, and grace with, such things are part of what made his—and made it so exceptional.

Joshua (Kaplan) Clover ’80

When Eric interviewed me for a teaching position back in 2005, his questions quickly made clear that here was a literary, witty, thoughtful mensch who cared deeply about not just Literature-with-a-capital-L, but also the stories that arise from simply being human. He wanted to hear details of an essay I was working on (about the curious miscellany of objects in my then very young packrat–son’s backpack). We happily discovered that we both had sons named Sam and shared an appreciation for Gertrude Stein. His droll descriptions of the challenges and delights of teaching Commonwealth students left me enticed and curious. Observing Eric’s English 9 class was a revelation. He presided with a light hand. His students responded in kind (kindly), with joyfully chaotic yet somehow focused banter; I emerged eager to teach, and learn, alongside this wizard. (After seventeen years, I still turn to the always wise, often funny notes about teaching that Eric passed along.) Eric embodied decency. He heard what people said and noticed how they said it. He, himself, wrote like a dream. I think of him as a magical combination of éminence grise and wise jester, a moral compass of a man, with a ready chuckle and those wonderful, beetling eyebrows, who adored clever repartee while disdaining artifice and pretension. He—as we say now—“built community” in myriad, antic ways: generating brainy, zany Gab topics at Hancock, offering tantalizing, quixotic electives. We all, Eric’s students and colleagues alike, benefited from the care and attention he lavished on us. His legacy—of careful close reading, thoughtful interrogation, and playful joie de vivre—lives on. Thank you, Mr. Davis, for being such an inspired and inspiring colleague and friend. I hold you in my heart.

Mara Dale, English Teacher

I owe so much to Eric Davis that I hardly know how to condense it. Because we rode the bus from Newton Corner to Back Bay at the same time many mornings, he had to endure my questions and my hero worship, and he did so with unfailing kindness. He and Polly Chatfield taught me how to read a poem and write literary criticism. In his course "Coleridge, Nietzsche, and Freud," he opened intellectual vistas to me, at age 14, that have never closed and have been some of the most important things in my life. I remember his love for his family, which taught me something I didn't know he was teaching, about how to be a husband and father. I remember a time of great conflict at Commonwealth when I didn't know what to believe, and it was Mr. Davis's willingness to level with me but also be an adult—to take responsibility for conflicts that weren't his fault, but weren't my business as a kid—that sticks with me. I think I learned how to teach from him, and he set a model for how to live. 

 

When I think of why I came to Commonwealth, I remember so many older teachers I admired and learned from, but I think first of Eric. It seemed as if he could see more in a page of Joyce or a teenager’s glance in about two seconds than the rest of us could in a semester. He missed nothing about the foibles and posturing of the characters, fictional and real, who surrounded him, yet somehow he also could regard them with limitless compassion and delight. Every time I feel good about the way a class or a meeting went, part of me is imagining that he would approve.

Catherine Brewster, English Teacher

I had many special moments with Eric Davis—a nicely placed compliment could mean so much from him, and I still recall a couple. I will always love the man. My favorite story that he told us was about the tough older kids in his school who would come up to him and say, “How’s your ass?” As a survivor of middle-school bullying, I could appreciate how that question was confusing and intimidating. Some years after graduation, I ran into him and asked in jest that rude question. Gentle soul that he was, he furrowed his brow and told the story over again.

Will Brownsberger ’74

Mr. Davis was the first person in my life to signal that my writing had some special value. I had Mr. Davis for ninth-grade English. At some point early in the school year, I wrote an in-class essay—I can’t remember the subject. Mr. Davis wrote me an extensive note about it when he handed it back, which moved me deeply, and he said that he had photocopied it for his files. I had already grown to admire him so much for his sensitivity, humor, and true appreciation of literature; his validation and interest in me as a writer had an enormous impact. I still think about this moment at 41!

Ottessa Moshfegh ’98

Whenever I heard Eric speak about his youth, it was generally a story about watching in awe the figures around him—the jocks who got the girls, the preppies at Williams—seemed sure of their place in the spotlight. I thought of him as the shy kid, the one who took everything in and had the razor intelligence not only to absorb it all but to see through the various performances. His skill as a reader and writer—to hear and to generate any voice spot-on, from the lovelorn teen to the old crochet irritated by the noisy youths or the hairless dog—was grounded in the sideline view he occupied. Nothing escaped his creative wit. He brought the same keen listening to his work with his English students and advisees, and his attention to the particular strengths and quirks of a given student, class, or advisee made every period, conference, and year fresh and interesting for him and for anyone who heard him talk about his kids in grading meetings or at a faculty gathering. Unlike teachers (not Commonwealth teachers!) who might grow stale after forty years of teaching Dubliners and Hamlet, he never fell back on formula, routine, or habit. And his sympathy went naturally to the student or advisee who did not quite fit in or did not move confidently through their world. He was endlessly patient as an advisor listening for what was unique about each one’s story and ever ready to affirm the truths they could see and the challenges they faced. While Eric was most at home on the outside looking in, had sympathy for the maverick and misfit, and had a healthy skepticism of individual or institutional pretense, he recognized the importance of the school as a healthy, strong institution to provide the structure within which, on the one hand, students could play safely and unfold their talents, or against which they could buck. When he retired in 2013. I wrote that “in Eric we’ve known that we have someone who sees through foolery and artifice, and that ultimately at Commonwealth we are measured by the care and quality that shows in our talk, our writing, and our work…Often bemused, always alert, Eric has watched—and engaged with—the long parade of students, teachers, and other characters who have passed through the School. We’ve known that we’ve been being watched for a long time. Eric’s gaze not only has helped us cut the humbug and hot air, but also has helped us see how precious, funny, and fulfilling it can be to attend to the details.” I miss him dearly.

 

It's been years since I've had a lengthy conversation with Eric, but that makes no difference. Encounters with him were always vivid, worthwhile, and enduring. He generally wouldn't say much, but he elicited much from me—and he listened with great care and intelligence. I remember once giving a talk at Commonwealth about a trip I had taken to Germany, where my stepmother had been born and where she had lived until she and her family fled the Nazis in 1940. I spoke about how challenging it had been for me there, for even though the landscape was scenic, and the people were pleasant enough, there was something about the place that left me uneasy. During the Q&A, Eric asked me to elaborate. I thought for a moment and then said that it wasn't what I was seeing that disturbed me; it was the ghosts. At that moment, Eric took an audible breath—and the expression on his face made it clear that he understood exactly what I was saying. R.I.P.

Rabbi Carl Perkins, Former Chemistry Teacher

I had the delightful blessing to have Mr. Davis for ninth-grade English. Being in his class was an incredible introduction to Commonwealth in so many ways—to have this teacher who truly believed words and writing were the only things that mattered, who loved language with every fiber of his body. Whose kindness, humility, care, and razor wit were apparent in every class. I remember in finals he posed several required essay questions on the books we’d read as a class, and then a choice of options for a section of the test. One option was a series of poetry prompts he’d dreamed up, and though we hadn’t written any poetry in the class (only analyzed it) it was exciting and provocative to have my teacher just challenge me to go ahead and write a bunch of poems. I went for it. Though I haven’t written more than a handful of poems since then, my work is pretty much as a writer and editor. I thank Mr. Davis for shaping my love of words into skills that have served for decades.

Rebecca Ennen ’00

Mr. Davis was an extraordinary teacher and presence in a school of extraordinary teachers (and students) and personalities. I was lucky enough to have him my sophomore year. He got us into Shakespeare, Hemingway, Damon Runyan, and more with gentle guidance and devastatingly deadpan class quips. Dan Seltzer '02 and I kept a running list of Mr. Davis' in-class gems. (e.g. "....rosehips." Pause. "Roses have hips." Swiveling his own: "Sexy little devils.") He steered us unerringly and efficiently through the sea of Great Expectations, bridging large swaths of redundant chapters with "Pip meets Estella. She scorns him." He, and his eyebrows, were still plenty capable of agitation if he felt we were neglecting the texts' potential.

He modeled gentle and light-handed, expert pastoral presence in my awkward teenage years, when all the emotional stakes were mountains and abysses. He noticed us. He cared. He helped us learn to laugh at ourselves, with love. May his memory be for a blessing.

Eric Davis was definitely in my top fave five of my beloved teachers when at Commonwealth. In every encounter with him, his teacher's authoritarian role was hidden as he was always enshrouded in good energy and his hysterical sense of humor! For you, Mr. Davis: If it's magic, then why can't it be everlasting like the sun that always shines like the poets in this rhyme, like the galaxies in time. If it's pleasing, then why can't it be never leaving, like the day that never fails, like on seashores, there are shells, like the time that always tells.

It holds the key to every heart throughout the universe. It fills you up without a bite, and quenches every thirst. So, if it's special then with it, why aren't we as careful as making sure we dress in style, posing pictures with a smile, and keeping danger from a child. It holds the key to every heart throughout the universe. It fills you up without a bite and quenches every thirst. So, if it's magic, why can't we make it everlasting like...

Azania Heyward-James '82

For years, Eric kept a frayed, stained index card pinned to the corkboard in his office. On it in his neat handwriting was a quotation from a student: “It’s all pretty boring until you start to think about it.” The speaker sounds surprised to have been jolted out of adolescent ennui. Eric was surely amused by the self-assuredness of “It’s all pretty boring.” But I wonder if Eric kept the quotation on view also to remind himself and his students of why he was teaching—to help kids discover how to go about noticing what matters. He himself seemed an expert in that kind of inquiry. Everything, and everyone, interested him, the quirkier the better. He was endlessly curious, turning objects over in his hands to appreciate them, studying pictures closely, relishing overheard talk, asking playful questions. Often, in late afternoon, I would come across him in the shadowed, nearly empty building, chatting quietly with a student he’d come across. I suspect they felt as privileged as I did to engage with his generous and original mind.

Mary Kate Bluestein, Former English Teacher

It's hard to quantify how much each experience plays in molding whom one becomes, but Eric Davis definitely had a key role in my developing a love for our beautiful English language. I have an indelible memory of him, eyes sparkling, scooting forward in his seat and tossing his tie over his shoulder so it wouldn't get in the way of his dive into a poem. I have gone on to teach English, preschool through eighth grade, in a homeschool co-op and more recently to college essay advising. Thank you, Mr. Davis, for nurturing this love. 

Chloe Chaudhry ’85

I always loved English class at Commonwealth, with all the teachers I had. I was fortunate to have Mr. Davis for one year. He always had such a nice “Mr. Davis smile” and such insightful points. Words don't really do justice to it, but if you had him, you know what I mean. My heart goes out to Ms. Siporin as well. They made a lovely couple, in life as well as in the English classroom.

 

Teacher, mentor, friend, and dear man. We love you, we miss you!  

Although he was not my teacher, I remember him as a friendly young man with whom I had an easy time communicating during our visit to Hancock. 

 

Ninth-grade English was where you began the maddening/rewarding process of relearning how to read and write. With Mr. Davis the initial shock of Commonwealth expectations was mollified by his clear delight in the subject and his patient manner. In the winter we read Faber ballads, enjoying meaty British tales, which distracted us from the arctic climate of the third-floor corner room. Thrilled to learn that one of the ballads was "John Barleycorn Must Die," an ode to beer-making popularized by the band Traffic, a classmate convinced Mr. Davis to let us play an audio tape in class to demonstrate the continuum of popular music. On this cassette, the tune segued without pause into "Glad," a long instrumental we insisted was part of John Barleycorn. As the jam went on, Mr. Davis's patience waned and he figured out the ruse, declaring "You're acting like a bunch of assholes. I'm leaving." And he did, ending an enduring civics lesson about our shared responsibility for learning.

 

Two moments: In his office going over the last graph of Joyce's "The Dead"—I suddenly understood "close reading"! And decades later delighting at a "close reading" he hosted for alumni/ae. Thanks, Mr. Davis.

 

Although he was not my teacher, I remember him as a friendly young man with whom I had an easy time communicating during our visit to Hancock.

 

Eric Davis was my first English teacher at Commonwealth, when I entered as a tenth grader. I credit him with making me enjoy English class for the first time, vastly improving my writing skills, and being an unforgettable presence in the Commonwealth community. One particular story from that year stands out: we were reading Great Expectations and happened upon the word "conniptions." Nobody knew what it meant. But rather than just telling us, Mr. Davis launched into an anecdote from his own childhood—as I remember him telling it, some friends of his liked to pin him down to the grass in the playground, and at the first sign of struggle they would shout "Don't have conniptions, Eric-ie!" The rest of that year, whenever Mr. Davis got animated about something in class, as would often happen, one of us would repeat that line back to him. And even now, I say it to my daughter when she gets a little over-excited.

 

I called Eric “Teacher” because I spent two years in his classroom auditing English 10 and an African Literature elective. What a gentle, brilliant educator and kind man! We students loved him and felt lighter in his presence. Eric tiptoed. His speech was light, his ideas genius, and his writing exquisite. He was both darling and giant. We were lucky he loved teaching mortals. I recently told my children that my copy of Macbeth is my greatest literary treasure. Why? Because it has my notes from Eric’s class. I cannot tutor a student without those notes. My gratitude (and love) for Eric is boundless.

Jaquelin Harris, English Tutor and School Editor

I remember Mr. Davis peering quizzically at a student and, with a twinkle from beneath his eyebrows, asking in his quick, clipped, almost breathless interrogatory: "Now, where did you get that from?" He is a model for me of an informed, engaged, collegial instructor. He always made me feel he was interested in what I had to say, eager to see what I might write, and how I might write it, and pleased to help in any way he could. The exceptionally high standard he set in our classes was to try to be like him. He is with me to this day in every class I teach. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Eric. 

 

Mr. Davis probably doesn’t remember me, but I remember him. I was a senior during his first year at Commonwealth School, and I was in his English class. I remember he had a soft, melodious voice; lovely eyes; and a wry sense of humor. I was impressed that he had even come to us in the first place, wondering why he would give up teaching at Windham College for a bunch of high schoolers. We began by reading a book called Seize the Day by Saul Bellow. Initially I was attracted to it because it did not have a lot of pages, but once I started reading it, I was hooked. It is about the quiet despair of a middle-aged son who cannot seem to escape the shadow of his imminently successful father, “the doctor.” In those days I didn’t know anything about despair or the hopelessness of the human condition, so you can imagine how shocked I was when I read that Tommy Wilhelm put his cigarette butts out in his raincoat pocket rather than have his father find out that he smoked. It’s been fifty years since I sat in his class, but I have never forgotten Mr. Davis or Tommy Wilhelm.