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When I arrived at Sequoia as a vice principal in 2011, one of my first jobs was as school liaison to the renovation of an old shop in the back of campus. The building had housed various detritus (and vermin) for over almost a decade and was being converted into classrooms and an art studio. It was a great project. Wedged between architects, project managers, and contractors, my job was to advocate for the needs of the students, teachers, and custodial staff to ensure the building delivered was the building our school needed – and that it would last.
As with all major construction projects, this one hit a few snags. The building itself, a product of the WPA, is part of Sequoia’s designation as a historical place on the national register. Tearing it down and rebuilding was not an option. In addressing significant structural issues with the foundation, however, the adjacent coastal live oak became threatened. Essentially, the tree’s stability had become conflated with the building itself. Fix the building, kill the tree.
Hearts were heavy and hands were wringing as we considered our options. The superintendent intervened personally. “This tree may not last forever,” said Dr. Lianides, “but it won’t come down on my watch.”
Our Hail Mary took the form of a pair of custom “crutches” (really no better way to describe them) engineered by Stanford architects. The tree’s heavy, serpentine branches were propped up. The massive tree lived on, diffusing light and stirring wonder in the B-Wing for another 13 years. Until this weekend. Like too many live oaks in California, this one’s slow march to oblivion has crested its final hill. A series of large falling branches in a highly trafficked area and a grim diagnosis from our arborist meant that the tree had to come down.
That it happened “on my watch” makes me sad. I always tell our incoming ninth graders that one of their unofficial tasks to complete before graduation is to pick a favorite tree and watch it over the course of the year for blossoms, fruit, shedding bark, or falling leaves. Sequoia’s trees are our true sentinels: guarding our community with their mass; watching each student over four years in what must seem like an instant.
We hope the history of our campus is meaningful for our students. We hope it gives them a sense of place and importance. They are part of something larger than themselves, but what happens at Sequoia lasts. We hope this helps them find within themselves humility and gratitude. In a world increasingly geared towards pleasure and gratification, gratitude and humility strike me as pathways to something more sustaining than pleasure.
Have a great week!
Best,
Sean
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