Ten years ago, I slumped into a cold, cramped classroom on the first floor of Towson High School. It was my junior year, and I’d dreaded this moment for months: It was finally time to take physics.
You could probably hear Joch from as far as Catonsville when he boomed, “Hello, my wonderful physics students!” at the top of class. He wore a smile fit for a finish line — there was no doubting he was happy to be there for yet another school year.
He must have known how anxious we were, how truly terrified we were of physics and the math required to understand it.
But if he knew, he wouldn’t let on. On that first day, Mr. Jochmans told us something we’d hold close for the rest of our lives — that our grades didn’t reflect our worth as human beings. Towson’s a tough school, and until that moment, my overachieving classmates and I hadn’t considered that our grades might not be the thing that mattered most. Perhaps there could be delight in learning beyond the mark we received for it.
Over the next year, Mr. Jochmans introduced us to the magic of physics — and school. He kept a drawer of granola bars for students who hadn’t eaten breakfast; he played music during labs and study sessions. There were no stupid questions in Joch’s room, and if you didn’t understand a concept, he’d stay after school with you for hours until you did.
I ate lunch in Mr. Jochmans’ room nearly every day, from the beginning of junior year until I graduated in 2016. Like many of my classmates, I struggled with mental illness in high school, and quickly learned Joch’s classroom was a space where I was not only safe, but welcome. For two years we talked daily about everything from politics to theater and music, with an occasional sprinkling of physics and calculus. He told me about Michigan State University, his treasured alma mater, and shared the stories behind every single one of the stuffed pandas that lined his classroom windows. He adored the bears, and in many ways he was like a panda himself, warm and affectionate and ready to share a tight hug with any student who needed it.
For a delusional few months, I thought I’d pursue physics in college. Maybe I’d even apply to Michigan State, I told myself, so touched by the love I’d found in calculating accelerations and velocities in Joch’s care.
But when I encountered a French immersion program in Canada that would allow me to study theater, Joch encouraged me to attend. Some days it felt like he knew me better than I knew myself — his advice was sacred, and I trusted him. When I applied to the University of Ottawa and got in, he was ecstatic.
Of course, we lost touch when I moved to Canada. In the years since graduating from Towson High School, I’ve become a theater critic and journalist, a career path I remember Joch floating as a possibility for me when I told him how much I loved to write. These days, I live in Toronto with my husband; my old life in Towson feels very far away.
But in 2022, I visited Towson to lead a theater criticism workshop, and, joy of joys, ran into Joch. Not only did he remember my name — and nickname, Murph, a name I’ve not let anyone else call me since high school — but he knew what I’d been up to. He asked what Canadian plays he should read, and he’d signed up for updates from the magazine I run about Canadian theater. Joch wasn’t on Facebook — he’d kept up with my life on his own accord.
Mr. Jochmans passed away this month, just a week before the start of the new school year. The news still doesn’t feel real. Surely, Joch will be in that first-floor classroom the next time I visit my hometown, ready for a quick catch-up or jaunt to Chipotle. Surely, he’s still around to ask questions, or to make his famous cookies for the annual Brunch of Champions. Surely, this year’s crop of students will get to experience the unparalleled glee of a Jochmans high five.
I know I’m not alone in my belief that Mr. Jochmans is one of the best teachers Baltimore County Public Schools has ever employed. He advocated for his colleagues, and he cared deeply about his students and their lives. He dedicated a truly absurd amount of time and emotional energy to ensuring I was OK during my final few years of public school. I’ll treasure that time forever, and I know plenty of my classmates have similar stories. Joch epitomized what it means to be a good educator.
In the months to come, I’m sure Towson will hire a wonderful new physics teacher. I’m sure, too, that this year’s class of physics students will do just fine on the AP test in May.
But there will never, ever be another Joch.
Aisling Murphy (aisling.aly.murphy@gmail.com) is a journalist and theater critic in Toronto. She grew up in Baltimore County.
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