by Teri Taylor
Joe Koke was a wonderful friend who made a lasting impact on my life and on the lives of my family. Over the more than 30 years I was blessed to know him, I watched him touch hundreds of lives in quiet, remarkable ways.
I first met Joe when I was a fellowship candidate. I had been interviewed by a SWTSU professor, but I was still on the fence about accepting the scholarship. After meeting Joe, however, his passion convinced me to take a chance on something completely outside my comfort zone.
Right out of the gate, it was proposed that we take a “road trip” to kick off my research experience. What? I was in a season of uncertainty in my career. My best friend and mentor had tragically died in a car accident. My principal was pushing me to fill her giant shoes, and up to that point I had mainly been a coach, bus driver, and baby biology/health teacher. Yet there I was, beginning a journey that Joe described as being like drinking water from a fire hydrant with one nostril closed. He wasn’t kidding. The man could describe a situation in fewer words than Webster’s Condensed could ever create.
Once I accepted that challenge, I was never allowed to look back. Joe became my teacher, my biggest supporter, my mentor, my confidant, and one of my dearest friends as he guided me through a fellowship and master’s program. He always wanted to co-author a book and even had a title for it: “Why Johnny Can’t Read in America,” about the failing education system. He saw, long before many others did, how education had been slipping and how public schools were sending less-than-prepared students into his classroom. I always felt Joe was like the canary in the coal mine, because he saw trouble light-years ahead of the professionals in “education.” His foresight drew me in and also encouraged his bride to step into education, because she was so well suited to being a strong role model and teacher with great common sense in the classroom. She did not need traditional teacher education training to be successful, and she certainly excelled in the short time she taught. Joe created a plan to help science teachers pair up with real scientists and paid them real money for their summer work. He changed the lives of those teachers, as well as the students who benefited from their summer experiences. That was Joe’s magic: a gentle push that rippled outward farther than anyone could measure.
This was a recurring theme in Joe’s life. He did not have a storybook childhood, but his mind was never allowed to rest. I think someone in his family should write about his life, because his journey was truly fascinating. Joe was probably the most intelligent person I had ever met, and he was always pushing people to reach higher goals—goals they may or may not have believed were within reach.
Joe never strayed from that path until he was derailed by Judy’s final cancer diagnosis. It nearly broke him, but he stayed faithfully by her side while continuing his work. He kept a journal of their experience, helping all of us make our way through the painful final months of Judy’s life. He helped us while also helping himself endure that heartbreaking season. Afterward, he went quiet for a while, until he found Carolyn. From then on, we stepped back somewhat and kept in touch less as he settled into retirement and his new life.
I will always remember his gentle and kind way of working with students in his lab. They did not always deserve him, but he was deeply nonjudgmental and always believed students would rise to the occasion if given the chance. He did not turn his back on anyone. Although some students did not always appreciate his sense of humor, Joe was honest and upfront with everyone he met. He did not sugarcoat what he had to say; he spoke openly in the lab, never with meanness, but with observations that were sometimes brutally honest and to the point. Bam! You had just been “Koke-ed.”
His road trips were never cut-and-paste experiences. They were adventures—the kind of education one could never fully receive in a classroom or lab. Joe modeled great teaching by giving just enough information, then sending his lab students out to explore questions on their own. He did not hover; he guided. He did not allow less-than-exceptional work to be served up. Instead, he sent people back to redo or rewrite until the work met his standards.
There were so many examples of Joe helping people in extraordinary ways. He could find a solution to almost any problem—whether it meant showing up to help change a flat tire, helping pull a student through emotional difficulty, or stepping in quietly in ways I heard about over the years and again at his memorial. That was who Joe was: a brilliant, kind soul who will be remembered fondly in the lives of hundreds of former students. I hope his brilliance endures in all the lives he touched. I can only imagine that he is now fully blessed with all the answers he ever pondered in the universe.
Lastly, Joe loved his family. He had his “wall of fame” in the lab, filled with some of his favorite students, and adventures but the family pictures in his office were his true pride and joy: his children and grandchildren. He enjoyed a wonderful and fulfilling life, but I think he was happiest watching his children and grandchildren grow into such wonderful, successful human beings. They must know what a great man they had the good fortune to have in their lives. I know I was lucky to have met him, worked with him, and been blessed to call my friend.
Rest well now, Joe, and enjoy your latest adventure. Until we meet again.
T.K.Taylor
