Recommendation  

To Whom It May Concern:

I’m writing to tell you about Michael Sherman, a kind and wonderful teacher and friend whom I have known for 30 years. I am an optical physicist, a career staff scientist at Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory. I am deputy director of the Center for X-Ray Optics, a group that includes over 40 scientists, engineers, technicians, students and support staff. In my work I lead and co-lead various teams of researchers developing advanced semiconductor chip-making technology, and creating a new generation of high quality x-ray lenses for nano-science.

Simply put, Michael has been a great influence and an inspiring role model in my life. He has the intelligence, drive, education, breadth of knowledge, and boundless energy to have chosen any career, and with those gifts, he has dedicated his entire professional life to nurturing the creative, intellectual, and philosophical, growth of children—to their enlightenment as bright, confident, independent thinkers. I know him to be a rare, selfless and giving person who elevates those around him.

At 13, I was a smart kid, good in school through bored by it, and then I met Michael. He was a very highly sought-after tutor among parents my parents knew. He became my mentor in 7th grade: we meet weekly through the end of high school, and we have kept in touch ever since. His energetic approach to learning and full-sail exploration of any subject opened my eyes and mind in ways that have shaped my experience, and have stayed with me ever since. I always looked forward our weekly session, saving up my hardest questions, and knowing there was no challenge too great or subject too detailed. Of course, we worked together on homework, SAT preparation, writing, math, and science, but there were never any limits to the depths or heights of our discussions, and he always spoke to me like a peer. Here was this benevolent and understanding adult, an amazing communicator who was above the grind of school and tests, who wasn’t bound by false expectations of grade-level or someone else’s idea of what I could or could not—or should or should not—understand. The sky itself was not a limit.

Here’s an example. The second time we met, I showed him some ball-trajectory graphing programs I had written on my new computer (this was 1982). He took a good look and informed me that I had in essence re-discovered Newtonian mechanics, upstairs in my bedroom. Though I was 13 and barely familiar with algebra, he led me on a course of learning through algebra, geometry, trigonometry, derivatives, and integrals, which became a science-fair-winning project, and launched me into my own trajectory of learning, where I believed then—and still believe now—that I could do, or learn, or accomplish anything. By 15, I was writing computer programs for Michael, to statistically analyze the data he collected in his graduate research in biology. (He gave me a tour of his Stanford laboratory that I remember well.) That was my very first job; and after I am finished writing this letter, I will resume programming my computer to analyze data I collected at work last month. This skill I have now (which has contributed in a large part to my overall success as a scientist) started from projects initiated by Michael, because he simply believed I could do it—or more precisely, that I would figure out how to teach myself to do it. And with his guidance, I did.

So, why not talk with a child about biology at a college level? (It’s fundamentally fascinating.) Why not talk about physics to a 7th grader (It’s how the world works, and nobody explains it to you.) Why not talk about improvisation in Jazz? (You mean you don’t have to play what’s written on the page?) Why not talk about the US role in the conflict in Nicaragua? (Wait, are we on the side of the dictator, or is that Honduras?) Why not discuss human nature in the context of the US/Russian nuclear posturing in the cold-war 1980s? These are conversations, and digressions from conversations, that have stuck with me ever since.

For Michael, one has the sense that teaching is not his purpose, learning is the purpose. He always beamed with pride at the wonderful and surprising things his other students, some were as young as 4 or 5, would say and observe, and he would share them with me from a small notebook he kept at hand—his most treasured possession. I recognized that in many ways he learned as much from his students as they from him—as it should be—and that we are all together in this glorious revelry and exploration of life and knowledge, freely available to any takers.

With Michael, a great teacher, those conversations often begin with the demonstration of a seemingly simple toy, a parable or story. I recognize now, that his efforts, between the lines, are to raise consciousness and awareness of the big topics, the eternal discussions, and the important ideas that inspire us to yearn for more and learn for a lifetime. Michael doesn’t talk above children’s heads, he talks to where he knows they can grow. Striving for excellence, and reaching upward are beautiful things to instill. I worry about parents who openly reject guiding their children in this way; not about those, like Michael, who can and do.

On issues of character beyond his role as a teacher, I have always known Michael to be a kind, extremely generous, and fundamentally gentle spirit, whom I would trust implicitly in any situation, with any decision, with any child.  Michael is a committed vegetarian with a reverence for life and kindness that leads him to escort flies and insects outside. I look forward to the day when my children will be old enough to become his students.

Sincerely,

Kenneth A. Goldberg.