Dear Mr. Acena,
It’s been several weeks now since I heard the news that you had passed on. “Terrible” and any other synonym feels like the only appropriate word that would fit for such a tragic loss, such horrible news. I’ve been trying to let time run its course and to glean some sort of newfound perspective that would make me feel differently about the whole situation, but the truth is, I still feel sick about it. It feels like a gaping void in the stratosphere. And what we are left with are your memories; memories that we have of you, and we the lucky ones, have with you. I suppose—no, I know, that is the real thing to be grateful for. Despite the fact that your physical being might not be around anymore, your soul and spirit still feel as tangible as ever. What a beautiful thing to revel in.
I came to Hamilton Middle School not knowing too much of your history, but over time was exposed to the various myths and legends surrounding your existence. Even before I officially met you and witnessed your aura and larger-than-life personality, your reputation preceded you. I had a good friend who attended Bryant Elementary and he, as well as his family, spoke of you in the highest regards. “He knows everyone…and he even knows everyone’s names.” This somehow felt like an impossibility. How could one person, one man, know so much. So many kids. So many names to remember. What was also true was that the Bryant community mourned your departure when you were transferred by SPS to Hamilton in the early 00’s to resurrect what the Hamilton community (and SPS delegation) believed needed to be restored. I’m sure you missed Bryant like they missed you—but I also wouldn’t be surprised if that “no-nonsense”, “turn-the-page” mentality took over and you welcomed the challenge that SPS had put in front of you.
I remember touring the school as a 5th grader. I had known many kids who had already made the transition from B.F. Day to Hamilton, to the point that my future attendance at the school seemed like a foregone conclusion. What’s strange is that I can’t necessarily remember you being at the tour. I know you had to have said a few words and gave the brief spiel, a formality, but it didn’t seem like you were much for the self-promotion game. You were personal and intimate, never overbearing. Maybe you just knew that if we did decide to come that we’d be in good hands. I feel like I remember the first day of school much better, though. There, you weren’t just a profile or a silhouette or a myth or an urban legend—instead, this time—a man. And maybe even an intimidating one, initially, to some of us. We were all so little and so young, but at least we knew: This was a principal. This was our leader.
Did you always have a limp? I never got to ask you. How’d you get it? Was it real or was it just part of the flavor and persona? Were you always so charismatic? Were you always so positive? Did you ever get in bad moods? Were you ever fearful or threatened by anything? At our school? Anywhere? It must be foolish to say—but to us, you might as well have walked on water. Limp or no limp. It didn’t matter. You never seemed phased by anything. You never seemed to lose your cool…ever. And if you did, you certainly didn’t show it.
Who could forget how the days would start, how the intercom would come on and we’d hear a voice clearing—a phantom “ahem” before a salutation of some sort, maybe a “good morning…” and then followed by, “…this is your leader…” I have to believe this was followed by an impenetrable school-wide silence. Even if you had been speaking from the main office, we wouldn’t dare interrupt you. When you spoke we listened. When our names begged to be called, you answered. You were our guy. You were our Mr. Acena. I do believe that there was a collective sense of pride that you represented us and we knew and felt so deeply that you were the best, the coolest, the most G principal in the whole district. Everything that came with you.
How you always used to tell us that if we were caught sagging and could see our underwear you’d make us wear a rope through the belt loops. “Nobody wants to see your booty,” you used to say. How you’d roam the halls with that walkie talkie and maybe see one of us doing what we weren’t supposed to be doing or catch us in a place where we weren’t supposed to be, you’d give us that goofy little grin, that goofy smirk, with one eyebrow raised, as if you couldn’t wait to hear the ridiculous excuses we were searching for in our scatterbrained, off-the-wall adolescent minds. No doubt getting ready to dole out the infamous lunch detentions or in-house suspensions, or even Friday after-school bonding sessions. You were fair, even when you weren’t. Did I deserve the punishment for half the times I got into trouble? Who knows. I think at a certain point, the shared consensus amongst us smart-ass wise-crackers, deviants, and troublemakers was that more time spent with you or near you, either trying to get into trouble just to get sent to your office, spending all day in a cubicle for in-house, or cleaning desks and classrooms after the Friday dismissal bell rang (which should have sent us into the weekend) for “bonding”, was time well spent. A privilege. Almost a reward, even.
I’m sure everyone has a their own individual accounts of their interactions with you. And I can imagine that a whole lot of the crowd control and deeper and more personal connections that you had with the kids and their families went on quietly behind-the-scenes. I know that it was a personal mission of yours to take care of that school. Of our school. To fix it in the ways that it could be fixed, with you at the helm and the countless other staff members to help sturdy this new foundation, in order to create a respectable institution. I know how much pride you took in the fact that we were Hamilton International Middle School. A student body of many different faces, flags, colors, languages and communities. A sort of anomaly in the north part of Seattle—a melting pot. A representation of what could be. A representation of your vision.
I wish you knew how often I think of those days. Those three years. Three of the best, most formative years of my life. Days and years that I can remember as if they had been yesterday. Days and moments that I dream of often. I wish that I somehow could have communicated that to you after we left and moved on to our next chapters and after you had left Hamilton a couple of years later to move on to your next project. Your next school that needed saving. I think that if all of the communities affected by you, your leadership, and your presence had had the opportunity to flood the doors of the schools you helped to empower, there would be a sea of people as far as the eyes could see. Beyond the horizon. I wish we could have provided that for you, if only to give you one more opportunity to know who you were for us. To thank you. To thank you for seeing us—at a time when the importance of being seen cannot be quantified. Instead, there will be, without a doubt, an interminable amount of moments in our lives, in which we will be blessed with your memories.
Memories like:
“I think he was Filipino…I could have sworn one day he spoke Tagalog to me.”
“You know my dad said Mr. Acena hoops here on the weekends? I heard he’s nice!”
“That Bob Marley shirt is gonna have to come off, son.” (I had been wearing a shirt that had marijuana on it)
“…now, If I, or any other teacher, see that you attend this fight, you will also be suspended for instigating…”
“Shooooooooot.”
“I don’t want to hear any of this, ‘He said that she said that you said that I said that they said, your momma’s a B.”
Your Hawaiian shirts. Gym teacher sweatsuits. You always had us wondering. Guessing. On our toes with anticipation. Forever maintaining this air of mystery. Yet, what was better than you popping into our classrooms every once in a blue moon just to make sure everything was alright. Checking on us, asking about our families, encouraging us to try new things, wanting the best for us. You were the giant who always had our backs. You were the father, the uncle, and the grandfather all-in-one.
Mr. Acena, you leave behind a legacy and an ever-loving embrace to hold us all.
There are, unfortunately, too many of us that have passed on. Too early. Too many. And that’s just from my graduating class. There are too many from other grades at Hamilton, as well. In my heart, and feeling like I might have known yours, I imagine that you are taking care of them. Keeping them company. There is solace in knowing that you are by their side. Know that we love you down here. May you continue to watch over us kids, adults now, who adore you. I, and countless others, express our deepest gratitude. In this lifetime and the next.
If you are the star, then we are the sea.
We embrace you.
And you can be sure that we will always remember your name.
(Below is a link to an obituary for Mr. Acena published in the Seattle Times)