A friend who lives in the Potsdam, New York area reached out to me this week and asked if I knew someone named Derek Maus. Yes, I replied, though there has certainly been a fair bit of time and distance since then.
He let me know that Derek died this week, at 53, of complications related to aggressive multiple myeloma. My thoughts are with his family and his friends in Potsdam as well as in Canada.
This, of course, is the story of how I knew Derek.
I began my high school career at Little Rock Central High in 1986. Almost immediately, I fell in love with the journalism department. The giant room, the light tables, the big machines meant for copying our carefully pasted layouts into printed newspaper documents, the dark photo lab. It smelled like ink and glue and paper. And tension and deadlines and meticulous editing and careful crafting of words and images.
There were two paths to leadership in the Little Rock Central High journalism department: the yearbook and the school newspaper, called the Little Rock Central High Tiger.
Both of those paths ran through a man named Charles Lance, the school’s journalism teacher.
I remember Mr. Lance as small, skinny, often smoking a cigarette (he would frequently bum smokes off of kids who had them) sitting on a wooden stool in the corner of the big, open journalism bullpen-style room. He would bark orders in that voice that was unmistakably Mr. Lance. If you were late, behind, or just off in any capacity, you dreaded the voice of Mr. Lance.
Once, I accidentally ran an X-acto knife across the top of my index finger, opening a pretty deep cut. I set down the knife, stopping important work cropping pictures and finishing layout work. Kirby! he screamed at me. What’re you doing, boy? You ain’t got time to put that knife down! Get back to work!
Only when I showed him the flowing blood did he huff, jump off his stool, and find me a band-aid.
By my junior year, I had shown enough interest, and done enough work for Mr. Lance for the newspaper that he rewarded me with a leadership position. Assistant Editor of The Tiger. I was on cloud nine.
I had not shown much interest in too many things as a kid, or as a teenager. Feeling excitement around something like journalism was a new sensation for me.
And putting in the work was very real. Those of us on the newspaper staff were expected to show up to school very early in the morning in order to work on the newspaper. I was all too happy to come to school bright and early — bringing Mr. Lance some McDonald’s breakfast, of course — and work on the newspaper.
It wasn’t all hard work and newspaper production. Mr. Lance entrusted a small handful of us to take his money, drive an hour or so to Oaklawn, the horse track in Hot Springs, Arkansas, about an hour away, to place his bets on whichever horses he fancied that week. I was one of those he entrusted.
So was Derek Maus.
Between Mr. Lance trusting me to place his bets at Oaklawn — and return with his winnings — and my dedication to producing The Tiger, my path to the highest position at the newspaper seemed like a lock: in my senior year, I would serve as Editor of The Tiger.
During my junior year, there was an open house. My mother came to meet all of my teachers and get something of a behind-the-curtain view of my otherwise unremarkable high school experience. I remember being excited to show her the journalism room, where I had spent so much of my time.
I know my parents were concerned about my academic career, as they always had been (I was an average to less-than-average student). They also had legitimate questions around why a kid with seemingly no motivation to date would spend so much time — particularly so early in the morning — at school. And if I had to guess, I’d say they probably had at least some suspicions around me and Derek and some of the guys missing half a day or school or more to go bet on horses.
So it was not unreasonable for my mother to ask Mr. Lance about the early morning hours.
But it was for Mr. Lance. And in no uncertain terms, he let me know it.
And so without fanfare, I was cast aside.
Derek Maus, then a junior, and Scott Murphy, a fellow senior who had done a lot of work on the newspaper as well were named Co-Editors of the school newspaper. It was the first time a junior had leap-frogged over a senior to attain the title (which Mr. Lance gleefully told me). I think I remained Assistant Editor for my senior year.
At the time I felt hurt, betrayed, ripped-off. I stayed mad at my mother for a long time about it. I stayed mad at Mr. Lance about it — stayed mad all through my senior year, actually. (Mad enough to re-focus my interest on radio instead of the printed word.)
The truth is, what I remember most is Derek being kind about it, understanding. He could have gloated or acted like a jerk, as any high-school aged kid might. But he didn’t. He treated me like an equal on the newspaper team, even as Mr. Lance turned his attention elsewhere. I was grateful to Derek for that, even if I didn’t express it at the time.
Thank you, Derek.
The Tiger was small. It was a high school newspaper. And I was very proud to be a part of it.
We learned a lot from Mr. Lance. We learned the difference between an okay picture and a great picture. We learned about the importance of layout. We learned how to write. We learned about how to report in a truthful, fair manner — even if it was going to piss people off. We learned about our rights as “journalists.” We learned about the importance of a free and fair media (yes, even at the high school level).
Seems like we could use some more of those fundamentals today. Even if it comes with making a few bets on the ponies.
Holding Derek and his friends and family in our hearts, in the light, and hoping they find peace.