At Manzano High School in the 1980s, we were taught to
call Joyce Briscoe “Ms. Briscoe” and when we graduated
in 1986 our transition to “the real world” was marked
by her permission to call her Joyce. With this first
name familiarity, came a card with her phone number.
We could call her, she told us. Not just to jabber on
the phone and not if there was anyone else we thought
might be helpful, but in an emergency, we could call
her. I carried this card in my wallet until I
graduated from college, until it was too frayed and
worn to be of any use. I carried it because it
reminded me that Joyce had my back. And that meant
something.
Joyce took the clock off the wall and outlawed
wristwatches. She asked that we write all our papers
on recycled paper and, at the end of the year, let us
scrawl our warm wishes and silly jokes on the walls of
her classroom instead of the pages of a yearbook. She
wore a sailor suit to teach Moby Dick and though she
professed an aversion to hugging, she looped an arm
around my shoulders when I got in to the college of my
choice.
Joyce had an innate understanding of the myopic nature
of high school students. She spent her energy helping
us lift our eyes from our own navels (and those of the
hottie in the next desk) so that we might gaze at the
world around us. Enforced “cultural encounters” took
my classmates and I to the Greek Festival, downtown
for Dim Sum lunches and to the seats of the Guild and
Don Panchos for French films. She believed that by
living in the world and experiencing as much of it as
possible, you couldn’t help but build a kind of love
and respect for your fellow humans.
When I heard that Joyce had been killed,
I felt like a part of my foundation had shifted. I
haven’t seen her in some time, but I can hear her
voice, I can feel the charge of her conviction. I am
lucky enough to have creative, wonderful, supportive parents and
friends and all of these people have helped to shape
the person I am today. Joyce was one of these people.
I am a better, smarter and kinder person because she
was in my life and I know somehow that there are a lot
of us who feel this same way. The best way to honor
Joyce is to keep our curiosity alive and to live as
honestly as we can. She would like that. I think she
would expect it.