When I entered my high school chemistry class, I was still a clumsy, awkward teen, seeking external validation wherever I could get it.  Within the first 2 days of school, before the long Labour Day weekend, Mr. Milligan let us use the Bunsen burners to melt glass rods and bend them into a 90 degree angle.  This was cool stuff – playing with fire, melting glass.  We used gloves and tongs to hold the rods, but when my angle wasn’t “perfect” I instinctively grabbed the red, hot part of the tube to try and “fix” it, instantly burning my right thumb and index finger.  Ultimately it resulted in much embarrassment for me (I’m pretty sure there were tears).  But beyond a gnarly blister and needing to keep it bandaged for a week to avoid infection, I wasn’t any worse for the wear.

At that point Mr. Milligan could have written me off as someone with questionable intellect, or at the very least, questionable judgement.  Instead, he chose to look at me as someone who clearly cared.  Maybe even too much.  He could work with that.

Milligan was known to be a very tough teacher.  He was smart and his tests were brutal.  He had a way of ensuring that people who were successful hadn’t just memorized the material, but had really learned the concepts.  He made himself available outside school hours to help work through difficult topics and provided practice tests and supplemental materials for people who wanted additional application.  Essentially, from an academic side, he was challenging but fair, likely because as much as any student cared, he cared more: about science, yes – but also about teaching and about people.

Mr. Milligan wasn’t an incredible teacher simply because he knew the material well, he saw and treated high-schoolers as humans.  He was open and direct, treating people with respect if they offered the same.  As I started to see myself more and more as an independent person, and not just a mold, shaped by my parents, teachers, church and others, Milligan’s tone was appealing.  He wouldn’t simply tell me what to do, but would ask me difficult questions (and wait for me to respond). 

As we built a relationship, some of those difficult questions bled into topics that were well beyond chemistry or science.  About people and their flaws, he could be very forgiving.  But he was very black and white about what acceptable or appropriate behaviour should look like.  As an example, he once asked me how fast I typically drove in a car.  I said I usually would drive 5 miles over the speed limit.  When I flipped the question back to him, he said that he always followed the speed limit, not a mile faster.  Why?  Because if you could adapt or interpret that law, what did it say about other laws and rules.

Milligan had little tolerance for the normalized teen drinking culture prominent in our rural Wisconsin town.  Thinking back, it was exceptionally risky, with far too many people binge drinking and making terrible choices to drive or engage in other activities when their judgement was compromised.  But even though Milligan’s opinions were known, he always respected mental health above all else.  He was always eager to be a safe resource to students who were struggling and would focus on what mattered most and not only what rules they had broken.  He helped a lot of students find the care or support they needed while navigating those difficult high school years.

Once he opened up to me and a small group of us regarding a personal story from his own family.  It involved an accidental suicide and the ways that secrets and society can drive people to dangerous situations.  It helped me to have that glimpse into his history and showed me that sharing personal stories builds trust and connection.  Connection with others is a fundamental human need and to feel connected, we need to be open and authentic.

I learned a lot from Mr. Milligan – about chemistry, yes, but more about life.  And when I had the opportunity to take his Physics class for my senior year of high school, I didn’t think twice.