In Memory of Chip Hopkins

I met Richard “Chip” Hopkins, Jr. on my first day of high school. I was new to the school — everyone in the 10th grade class was, obviously — but I was also new to the district, and knew approximately three people, none of whom were in my grade and thus none of whom would be in any of my classes. I was timorous and uncomfortable, surrounded by people who were infinitely more at ease than I was, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. First day of high school, first day at a new school, first time meeting any of these people… it was overwhelming.

But something was different in my final period of the day. The classroom wasn’t like the others — tidy, functional, well-kept. This one was messy. Piles of books were stacked on shelves, on the floor, in every corner. Massive glass-fronted bookcases overflowed with volumes of every shape, size, and age, crowded by knickknacks and oddities wedged above, alongside, or in front of them. Every surface was covered in art, political posters, or world flags. The smell of incense hung in the air alongside music… a band I’d never heard, but would come to know and love.

Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by, water flowing underground
Into the blue again, after the money’s gone
Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground

The teacher wasn’t in the room, but when he finally entered, he was hard to distinguish from the students — save for looking a few years older. Clean-shaven, red hair pulled into a tight ponytail, wearing a vaguely grungy poncho and chatting casually with two cartoonishly handsome, well-built athletes (who I would later learn were lacrosse players he coached). Compared to the other teachers I’d seen that day, he was a bolt of lightning. And I didn’t realize the extent to which that shock would change the course of my life.

Ask any student who had Chip Hopkins as a teacher and they’ll give you a familiar set of details. There were no ‘normal’ classes. No lectures. Just open dialogue and discussion — sometimes seated at desks, sometimes cross-legged on rugs. Occasionally there were pranks, either on Chip or with his help, with no warning or clear reason. A single student comment might derail the day’s lesson and turn the class into an album listening party. It was chaos, pure and simple — and an incredible venue in which to learn. As a very rigid, structured young man, I found something intoxicating in this freewheeling, anything-goes approach to education. It was nonjudgmental, and — most desirably — inviting. Anyone was welcome, as long as they were willing to joke along, listen, and contribute.

When lunch rolled around the next day and I still hadn’t made any friends, unsure where to sit and eat, I wandered past Chip’s classroom. He was perched at his little wooden desk in the front right corner, plucking away at his district-issued computer like the apes discovering the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey. He must have heard me, because he turned, gave a broad wave, and gestured me inside. “Come, sit,” he said, pointing to a ratty wooden chair upholstered in lumpy cushions and tan 1990s tapestry fabric. So I did. And I sat in that chair for lunch almost every day for the next three years.

Knowingly or not, one of Chip’s greatest strengths was his ability to draw in strays. Some people have a natural magnetic quality — you should see how my sister gets wild birds to sit near her — but Chip collected oddballs, weirdos, misfits, and outsiders. They gravitated into his orbit, and he welcomed them willingly. He mashed them together into strange pairings, invited them to meet, and helped cultivate friendships that, in many cases, still last. He introduced me to several of the ‘cool kids,’ insisting they look out for me in other classes. When a tragically beautiful teenage girl arrived from another school, black-dyed hair, heavy eyeliner, bright red lipstick, sad eyes — he immediately introduced her to one of his students who looked uncannily like her male counterpart. They were dating by the end of the week. They were the most beautiful couple I’d ever seen. In Chip’s classroom, everyone was equal — an ingredient, in his words, “in the gumbo of life.”

He loved the variety and the discovery — the slow work of drawing out hidden talents or unexpected strengths, things that might have remained invisible if not for his eye. His goal was simple: to make you grow. Not just in knowledge, but in character.

To that end, he also ran a program called the Community of Caring. At Olympus High School, it was legendary — either the easiest blow-off class of your entire academic career, or the most important and rewarding part of it. The brilliance of the program was that it mirrored whatever you gave to it. The more you put in, the more you got back. Officially a community service period, students would leave campus to volunteer in exchange for a grade. The guidelines were intentionally vague. You could pick up trash in a park, read at an elementary school, or stand on a street corner holding a sign that said “Have a Nice Day.” As long as you could prove you were doing something constructive, Chip would nod, pass you, and encourage you to get back out there.

But the one project he personally oversaw was visiting local nursing homes. He had a soft spot for the residents. When students didn’t know where to go, he’d nudge them toward the care facilities. And they loved him for it. For over a decade, his students — from every clique and background — visited the elderly several times a week, bringing smiles, laughter, and a kind of energy no other program could provide. When one of the residents passed, Chip would find out about the funeral, encourage students to attend, and tell the family what their loved one had meant to his class. That was Chip Hopkins: his reach extended invisibly, but it was deep and powerful.

He was also an incredible friend. Over the years I spent eating my lousy school lunch with him, we had some of the most meaningful (and most meaningless) conversations of my life. He gave advice gently — never pushy, unless you clearly needed the shove — and delighted in introducing you to new ideas, new music, new books. You weren’t truly one of Chip’s students until he’d hurled a paperback at your head and shouted, “What, you’ve never read [insert author here]? How are you even alive?!” But sometimes it was more quiet than that. Once, during a particularly hard week, I sat down in that old chair next to his desk and didn’t say a word. He didn’t either. He just slid a book across the desk (I think it was a biography of Benjamin Franklin), nodded, and went back to his computer. That was enough. I’m not sure what the biography of Franklin had to do with anything, but I’ve still got it on my bookshelf regardless.

He introduced me to The Talking Heads (see above), The Breakfast Club, and Siddhartha. When I, in turn, sheepishly brought him my own naive pop culture discoveries — “Hey Chip, have you heard of a band called Nirvana?” — he gave each one the gravitas of a masterwork. Sure, he’d already known about it. But you hadn’t. And he’d never diminish your joy in the discovery.

He was graceful, appreciative, and manically enthusiastic. His excitement was infectious. He made you want to know more, feel more, do more — and he gave you the safety to try.

After my father died and the funeral had come and gone — which Chip and his family attended, unprompted and unexpected — I found myself back in that tan chair. There was no forced talk, no clumsy grief counseling, no awkward ‘after-school special’ moment. He just kept me laughing. He kept me moving. And when I needed to fall apart, he gave me space to do so, without judgment. A heartbroken teenage boy could not have had a better friend or ally.

Even after graduation, he remained a stalwart. Checking in with Chip every few months, I always found his world bigger than before. Catching up with him felt like stepping back into a conversation that had never really ended. There was no awkwardness. It was as if you’d stepped out to grab a drink and come right back — even if you’d been gone for years.

Before I graduated, all I knew of his life before teaching were scattered sketches: a burnout kid from New Canaan, Connecticut; stirring up trouble at St. Luke’s; dropping out at Hampshire College; following the Dead on tour; eating at the actual Mystic Pizza (which he insisted was “fine, but pretty overrated”). There were stories of beer and girls and a half-dozen unmentionable crimes — and then, meeting Sonja. Once, on their anniversary (which he definitely did not forget until that morning, no sir), he told me he’d known the moment he saw her that she was the one. The most beautiful woman in the world. He never quite understood how he’d convinced her to marry him. Together they had two excellent children — the apples of his eye — both of whom, more importantly, turned out to be excellent people. What more could a parent want?

Chip was a teacher and a lifelong student, a madman, a coach, an artist, a pariah, a friend, a weirdo, an iconoclast, an advocate, and a lover of life. He was deeply polarizing — you either loved him or loathed him. I know a few teachers who muttered in the halls, “How come Hopkins gets away with it?!” But he was a genius. A true friend. A dedicated father. A loving husband. And, truly, a good man.

Now that I think about it, the funny thing about people like Chip is that they never really disappear. We borrow bits of them — the music they loved, the questions they asked, the way they listened — and we pass them on. And while it’s a shame that we’ll never hear an unexpected blast of his laughter — like a donkey falling down the stairs, in the best way possible — again, it’s a comfort to know that in some way, he’s still here… just slightly rearranged. He will be missed — fiercely. And we, as a species, are diminished by his loss.

Rest in peace, buddy. I’ve heard the Dead sound great wherever you are.

A.P.H., 7/8/25