On August 31st, Pioneer Latin Teacher Douglas Julius passed away. He died suddenly at the University of Michigan Hospital. He is survived by his wife Jo and his two children, Gillian and Patrick. He taught English, Latin, and Greek in Ann Arbor Public Schools and will be missed by students and staff. Below are memories and letters from students of Mr. Julius:
Dear Mr. Julius,
I don’t really know where to begin with this so I’ll just jump right in:
I’m very thankful for what you taught me freshman year. I was in a bad spot personally and didn’t really care for school a whole lot and had already given up. I remember talking to you after I showed you one of my papers towards the end of the year. You told me how you noticed I was down, but saw potential in me. You reminded me that I had it in me to do very well in school and surpass all my challenges. You really revitalized my spirit and motivation for school which will help me my whole life.
The last time I spoke to you was the middle of sophomore year. You asked me how school was and when I told you I was finally doing well, you said: “That’s very good I knew you had it in you. I’m proud of you.” I’ll always remember those words and will carry them in my thoughts. Thank you for everything.
-Spencer Kufta, Class of 2019
Mr. Julius initially scared me. He scared me because he wasn’t Mr. Finch, the Latin
teacher my classmates and I had grown to love over my first two years of high school. Mr.
Finch’s chaotic and goofy approach to life and class were the reasons why we all had signed up for another year of Latin. At registration day for junior year, we were told that Mr. Julius, not Mr. Finch, would teach Latin class. Many of us were first dismayed, and then worried. Were we going to actually have a serious teacher? Would there actually be rules and discipline in a Latin
classroom? Was the most fun hour of the day going to actually be serious and difficult?
Thankfully, Mr. Julius proved to have the same ‘latin teacher spirit’ that we
all loved. He taught us a great deal about Latin while maintaining the laxness and
humor we had come to associate with Latin class. Mr. Julius continued the tradition of
occasionally supplying his students with donuts, and he also followed the tradition of
occasionally showing movies in class. Mr. Julius had a delightfully relaxed personality that
meshed well with us. He often wore Spiderman t-shirts to class. That’s always how I’ll think of
him. The last time I saw Mr. Julius, a few days before I left for college, he was wearing that
same t-shirt. Superhero movies were a big part of who he was, and he shared that part of his
personality with us just like he shared his love of Shakespeare or Cicero.
Truthfully, it was through the movies that we first got a sense of the kind of teacher we
were dealing with. The second movie Mr. Julius showed us was one which he said was one of his
favorites: Attack of the Killer Tomatoes. This film taught us a lot about Mr. Julius’s taste – it was
a terrible movie, and for Mr. Julius the highlight seemed to be watching the rest of us,
agonizingly trying to get the theme song unstuck from our heads. I say it was a terrible movie,
but as Mr. Julius frequently reminded us, de gustibus non disputandum est, there is no disputing
matters of taste. The fun of the movie was in its crappiness. From that point on, whenever we
were going to watch a movie in Mr. Julius’s class, we never knew if it was going to be a classic
film or documentary about Ancient Rome or some other ancient civilization or something along
the line of Killer Tomatoes – a movie to which there was a sequel that we never watched.
Mr. Julius was a fantastic teacher. He understood the importance of fundamentals, and
how all knowledge builds upwards. We drilled noun charts and verb synopses a lot of times,
because that was the knowledge that was necessary to translate or parse Latin. But he was also an
understanding teacher, too. If we didn’t have enough time or weren’t prepared, we could always
convince him to postpone a test to give us a better chance at actually learning the material. I’ll
never forget how much we feared those parsing tests, even though we always did significantly
better than we thought we would, much to Mr. Julius’s amusement.
Mr. Julius always felt it was important that our class not just be a Latin language class –
it had to be a Roman class, too. The date was always written on the board in the style of the
Romans, we would discuss geography and history, and he would frequently “consult the gods”
when it came time to make decisions. I will always remember the exasperated smile on his face
whenever the gods seemed to favor us excessively, at the expense of his learning objectives – the
number of synopses the gods postponed for us was mathematically highly improbable. Mr. Julius
would get ready to roll the die, we’d start chanting “Six! Six!” and we would often get it. Mr.
Julius introduced us to great Roman thinkers and writers like Ovid, Vergil, and, his favorite (and
certainly not my favorite) Catullus. Thanks to Mr. Julius, I was introduced to aspects of Roman
writing and culture that I never would otherwise have been.
But to simply describe my relationship with Mr. Julius (or the relationship of many other
people to him) as simply academic would be criminally misleading. For most of my junior year,
his classroom was where I went to eat lunch every day – and I would have done the same senior
year had he not lost the epic Battle of the Classrooms. I started going to his room for lunch as an
escape from the cafeteria and the people who inhabited it, and Mr. Julius welcomed me
happily. That was one of the greatest things I’ve ever done. About five of us got in the habit of
going to his room for lunch every day, and that was where we had more fun than in the rest of
the day combined. We spent those minutes absorbed in all sorts of crazy conversations. Some of
our best were: “Ranking the most attractive male world leaders,” “Attempting to draft Harry
Potter’s complete course schedule,” and “God is in Vietnam, and the devil in Mozambique.” Mr.
Julius would often join in these conversations, or at least express his amazement at our craziness.
We would also play a lot of chess during these lunches, originally drawing an 8x8 grid on the
whiteboard and writing and erasing every piece. Mr. Julius saw this, and the next week he
brought in a chess set for us to use during lunch. Just another example of the simple things he did
that made him such a nice guy.
Mr. Julius really got to know his students. He wrote letters of recommendation for a lot of
us, he arranged field trips to “Latin Day” at U of M, and he chaperoned some of us in Italy. Mr.
Julius really knew who we were as people. He was one of those rare and special teachers who
knew more about you than your grade in his class. He cared about your life, your successes and
your failures. He got to know all of our interests and quirks. He saw us as people, not just
students – people worth putting effort into getting to know.
I am really going to miss him when I go back to Pioneer in January to say hi to my old
teachers. I was looking forward to seeing him. He would have wanted to know how college was
going for me. He would have wanted to hear everything. He died less than a week into my
college education. I’m not going to be able to tell him any of it. That’s really sad.
Mr. Julius wrote a very nice note in my yearbook in our last class period together, and he
ended it with the phrase “pax et shalom.” Pax is the Latin word for peace, and shalom is the
equivalent in Hebrew. Et is a Latin conjunction meaning ‘and.’ He wrote the Hebrew word in
Hebrew letters, and I felt that his message and his effort really encapsulated a lot about him. He
made that message special, and connected it to me.
Pax et shalom, Mr. Julius. I will miss you so much.
-Zachary Bernstein Class of 2017
Mr. Julius will be remembered by his students for his extraordinary intellectual curiosity and generosity of spirit. Both of these qualities made him an exemplary teacher and a good friend. He had the rare combination of immense knowledge and complete unpretentiousness about it. For instance, when I mentioned to him that I was making my first stumbling attempt at reading one of James Joyce's works, I remember him replying matter-of-factly that he read Joyce's Ulysses every year, because he enjoyed it so much. He could have mentioned that he was "a Joycean Scholar with an award-winning James Joyce collection at Cornell," as I learned from his obituary, but the collection of titles or honors was never the point of learning to Mr. Julius. He was always driven by the joy of knowledge for its own sake; he appreciated awards and recognition only as outward manifestations of an inner passion for learning.
My memories of Mr. Julius are all fragments like that conversation about James Joyce, fragments that I've been turning over in my head this past week, trying to fit together into something more-or-less whole. It's a process a bit like restoring a shattered stained-glass window - each fragment shines a lustrous cobalt blue or ruby gold before the light, but no single fragment can make complete on its own the picture of the man I knew. I've been endeavoring to pull these fragments back together: the conversation we had in the hall last year about how promising the new Spiderman trailer was; the surprised and amused look on his face when, in the first week we had him as a teacher, my friend Thea tentatively asked him if she could call him "Caesar"; his utterly serious suggestion that we spend a Friday fifth hour watching a 1990s movie version of Captain America starring J.D. Salinger's son; his smile reminiscent of "pater Aeneas" at our delight when he brought us donuts to celebrate Rome's birthday.
One of the most representative memories I've fastened into the metaphorical stained-glass window is that of Mr. Julius's response to our National Latin Exam results. He presented individually in front of the class the certificates and medals his students had earned. He framed the certificates himself, out of his own pocket. He loved not only his subject, but also his students.
I feel honored to have had the chance to get to know Mr. Julius, as a teacher and as a friend. His abundances of curiosity and kindness are the grounding principles not just of a scholar and an educator, but of a good human being. I will carry him with me forever.
-Zoe Crane Class of 2017
I have had many teachers but none of them stood out like Mr. Julius. He wanted all his students to succeed and wanted them to take advantage of every opportunity. I only had him for one year when I was a freshman. I remember on the Latin trip we took to Italy and Greece, he told us to take as many pictures as possible so we could capture and enjoy the beauty in everything. He allowed us to stop whenever we thought something was picture perfect, I will never forget that.
-Omolara Clay, Class of 2020
Last week, AAPS lost one of its beloved Latin teachers, Pioneer's own Mr. Julius. I only had his class for a year, but I wish it had been longer. Over the last year I've come to know him as one of the most loving and open-hearted people I've ever met. He was generous and humble, reserved and wise, and incredibly devoted to his family and his students. I got to know him on the Latin trip to Greece and Italy this year, where we spent a couple of afternoons together. One at a museum in Rome, and one walking the streets of Florence. I have good reason to believe that the "accidental" extra tickets he procured to the first were no such thing. That's who Julius was -- he loved to see his students' passion for history, art, and literature; he loved to see our wonder and our awe, and he went out of his way to show us to what inspired us.
I've never read Ulysses, so I cannot offer him the words he might have thought most fitting. Holding him, his family, and our class in my heart right now. Discipuli discipulaeque Latinae, quod dixerit: sic itur ad astra. Vale Juli.
-Daria Chamness Class 0f 2017
Mr. Julius, our beloved Latin teacher at Pioneer, passed away unexpectedly just before the beginning of this school year. Mr. Julius taught at Pioneer for just two years, but he was a part of the Ann Arbor school district for countless years, as a teacher at Huron. During his too short time at Pioneer, Mr. Julius impacted many students, and continuously contributed to the community. He was passionate about what he taught, and was eager to share his knowledge and love of learning with his students. Ask Mr. Julius any question, whether it be about language, history, economics, science, or Spiderman, and he was sure to have an answer. Mr. Julius never made learning scary, and created a fun, relaxed, environment. Instead of tests, he administered FLAIs, Friendly Little Assessment Instruments. Despite his unconventional and relaxed teaching methods, Mr, Julius was an excellent Latin teacher, with many students receiving honors and awards on the National Latin Exam. At least five or six times in the year, Mr. Julius brought in Washtenaw Dairy doughnuts for all of his students. The occasion? A holiday only Mr. Julius would remember, like Julius Caesar’s birthday or the Ides of March.
Outside of class, Mr. Julius continued to enrich the lives of many students. He revived the Latin Club, where students discussed Latin, ate food, and watched movies about mythology. There were few in the club, and we didn’t do much, but Mr. Julius made an effort to make sure that we saw the fun side of Latin and language. In May, Mr. Julius organized a trip to the Michigan Latin Day. While others may have asked for a bus, or not gone at all, Mr. Julius and his students walked, parading down main street, toting a Radio Flyer wagon a few of us had converted into a Roman style chariot for a race at Elbel field. After Latin day, Mr. Julius took all 90 students out for ice cream, and despite the size of our group he paid for everyone. Mr. Julius never ceased to be a generous, kind, intelligent, and helpful. As we left his class at the end of the school year, we never would have guessed that it would be the last time we saw him. If we knew, there would have been so many things to thank him for. Desideraberis, Mr. Julius, and thank you for all you gave to Pioneer and the world.
-Helen Brush Class of 2020
Mr Julius was a teacher who taught his students not through lecture after lecture, but through captivating stories and topics which us students could easily relate to. His unique personality truly appealed to me and I thoroughly enjoyed learning from him, although it was only for a years. I can vividly remember all the strange movies that he showed in class, and to my delight, he actually showed full movies, rather than turning clips into a learning “experience”. On top of that, he never rushed through any material, and cared about each and every person in the class understanding it and unlocking their fullest potential in Latin. Mr Julius, I want to thank you for your time here, and your energetic spirit and passion toward learning and teaching will always be with us.
-Harrison He Class of 2020
Dear Mr. Julius,
I don’t really know where to begin with this so I’ll just jump right in:
I’m very thankful for what you taught me freshman year. I was in a bad spot personally and didn’t really care for school a whole lot and had already given up. I remember talking to you after I showed you one of my papers towards the end of the year. You told me how you noticed I was down, but saw potential in me. You reminded me that I had it in me to do very well in school and surpass all my challenges. You really revitalized my spirit and motivation for school which will help me my whole life.
The last time I spoke to you was the middle of sophomore year. You asked me how school was and when I told you I was finally doing well, you said: “That’s very good I knew you had it in you. I’m proud of you.” I’ll always remember those words and will carry them in my thoughts. Thank you for everything.
-Spencer Kufta, Class of 2019
Mr. Julius initially scared me. He scared me because he wasn’t Mr. Finch, the Latin
teacher my classmates and I had grown to love over my first two years of high school. Mr.
Finch’s chaotic and goofy approach to life and class were the reasons why we all had signed up for another year of Latin. At registration day for junior year, we were told that Mr. Julius, not Mr. Finch, would teach Latin class. Many of us were first dismayed, and then worried. Were we going to actually have a serious teacher? Would there actually be rules and discipline in a Latin
classroom? Was the most fun hour of the day going to actually be serious and difficult?
Thankfully, Mr. Julius proved to have the same ‘latin teacher spirit’ that we
all loved. He taught us a great deal about Latin while maintaining the laxness and
humor we had come to associate with Latin class. Mr. Julius continued the tradition of
occasionally supplying his students with donuts, and he also followed the tradition of
occasionally showing movies in class. Mr. Julius had a delightfully relaxed personality that
meshed well with us. He often wore Spiderman t-shirts to class. That’s always how I’ll think of
him. The last time I saw Mr. Julius, a few days before I left for college, he was wearing that
same t-shirt. Superhero movies were a big part of who he was, and he shared that part of his
personality with us just like he shared his love of Shakespeare or Cicero.
Truthfully, it was through the movies that we first got a sense of the kind of teacher we
were dealing with. The second movie Mr. Julius showed us was one which he said was one of his
favorites: Attack of the Killer Tomatoes. This film taught us a lot about Mr. Julius’s taste – it was
a terrible movie, and for Mr. Julius the highlight seemed to be watching the rest of us,
agonizingly trying to get the theme song unstuck from our heads. I say it was a terrible movie,
but as Mr. Julius frequently reminded us, de gustibus non disputandum est, there is no disputing
matters of taste. The fun of the movie was in its crappiness. From that point on, whenever we
were going to watch a movie in Mr. Julius’s class, we never knew if it was going to be a classic
film or documentary about Ancient Rome or some other ancient civilization or something along
the line of Killer Tomatoes – a movie to which there was a sequel that we never watched.
Mr. Julius was a fantastic teacher. He understood the importance of fundamentals, and
how all knowledge builds upwards. We drilled noun charts and verb synopses a lot of times,
because that was the knowledge that was necessary to translate or parse Latin. But he was also an
understanding teacher, too. If we didn’t have enough time or weren’t prepared, we could always
convince him to postpone a test to give us a better chance at actually learning the material. I’ll
never forget how much we feared those parsing tests, even though we always did significantly
better than we thought we would, much to Mr. Julius’s amusement.
Mr. Julius always felt it was important that our class not just be a Latin language class –
it had to be a Roman class, too. The date was always written on the board in the style of the
Romans, we would discuss geography and history, and he would frequently “consult the gods”
when it came time to make decisions. I will always remember the exasperated smile on his face
whenever the gods seemed to favor us excessively, at the expense of his learning objectives – the
number of synopses the gods postponed for us was mathematically highly improbable. Mr. Julius
would get ready to roll the die, we’d start chanting “Six! Six!” and we would often get it. Mr.
Julius introduced us to great Roman thinkers and writers like Ovid, Vergil, and, his favorite (and
certainly not my favorite) Catullus. Thanks to Mr. Julius, I was introduced to aspects of Roman
writing and culture that I never would otherwise have been.
But to simply describe my relationship with Mr. Julius (or the relationship of many other
people to him) as simply academic would be criminally misleading. For most of my junior year,
his classroom was where I went to eat lunch every day – and I would have done the same senior
year had he not lost the epic Battle of the Classrooms. I started going to his room for lunch as an
escape from the cafeteria and the people who inhabited it, and Mr. Julius welcomed me
happily. That was one of the greatest things I’ve ever done. About five of us got in the habit of
going to his room for lunch every day, and that was where we had more fun than in the rest of
the day combined. We spent those minutes absorbed in all sorts of crazy conversations. Some of
our best were: “Ranking the most attractive male world leaders,” “Attempting to draft Harry
Potter’s complete course schedule,” and “God is in Vietnam, and the devil in Mozambique.” Mr.
Julius would often join in these conversations, or at least express his amazement at our craziness.
We would also play a lot of chess during these lunches, originally drawing an 8x8 grid on the
whiteboard and writing and erasing every piece. Mr. Julius saw this, and the next week he
brought in a chess set for us to use during lunch. Just another example of the simple things he did
that made him such a nice guy.
Mr. Julius really got to know his students. He wrote letters of recommendation for a lot of
us, he arranged field trips to “Latin Day” at U of M, and he chaperoned some of us in Italy. Mr.
Julius really knew who we were as people. He was one of those rare and special teachers who
knew more about you than your grade in his class. He cared about your life, your successes and
your failures. He got to know all of our interests and quirks. He saw us as people, not just
students – people worth putting effort into getting to know.
I am really going to miss him when I go back to Pioneer in January to say hi to my old
teachers. I was looking forward to seeing him. He would have wanted to know how college was
going for me. He would have wanted to hear everything. He died less than a week into my
college education. I’m not going to be able to tell him any of it. That’s really sad.
Mr. Julius wrote a very nice note in my yearbook in our last class period together, and he
ended it with the phrase “pax et shalom.” Pax is the Latin word for peace, and shalom is the
equivalent in Hebrew. Et is a Latin conjunction meaning ‘and.’ He wrote the Hebrew word in
Hebrew letters, and I felt that his message and his effort really encapsulated a lot about him. He
made that message special, and connected it to me.
Pax et shalom, Mr. Julius. I will miss you so much.
-Zachary Bernstein Class of 2017
Mr. Julius will be remembered by his students for his extraordinary intellectual curiosity and generosity of spirit. Both of these qualities made him an exemplary teacher and a good friend. He had the rare combination of immense knowledge and complete unpretentiousness about it. For instance, when I mentioned to him that I was making my first stumbling attempt at reading one of James Joyce's works, I remember him replying matter-of-factly that he read Joyce's Ulysses every year, because he enjoyed it so much. He could have mentioned that he was "a Joycean Scholar with an award-winning James Joyce collection at Cornell," as I learned from his obituary, but the collection of titles or honors was never the point of learning to Mr. Julius. He was always driven by the joy of knowledge for its own sake; he appreciated awards and recognition only as outward manifestations of an inner passion for learning.
My memories of Mr. Julius are all fragments like that conversation about James Joyce, fragments that I've been turning over in my head this past week, trying to fit together into something more-or-less whole. It's a process a bit like restoring a shattered stained-glass window - each fragment shines a lustrous cobalt blue or ruby gold before the light, but no single fragment can make complete on its own the picture of the man I knew. I've been endeavoring to pull these fragments back together: the conversation we had in the hall last year about how promising the new Spiderman trailer was; the surprised and amused look on his face when, in the first week we had him as a teacher, my friend Thea tentatively asked him if she could call him "Caesar"; his utterly serious suggestion that we spend a Friday fifth hour watching a 1990s movie version of Captain America starring J.D. Salinger's son; his smile reminiscent of "pater Aeneas" at our delight when he brought us donuts to celebrate Rome's birthday.
One of the most representative memories I've fastened into the metaphorical stained-glass window is that of Mr. Julius's response to our National Latin Exam results. He presented individually in front of the class the certificates and medals his students had earned. He framed the certificates himself, out of his own pocket. He loved not only his subject, but also his students.
I feel honored to have had the chance to get to know Mr. Julius, as a teacher and as a friend. His abundances of curiosity and kindness are the grounding principles not just of a scholar and an educator, but of a good human being. I will carry him with me forever.
-Zoe Crane Class of 2017
I have had many teachers but none of them stood out like Mr. Julius. He wanted all his students to succeed and wanted them to take advantage of every opportunity. I only had him for one year when I was a freshman. I remember on the Latin trip we took to Italy and Greece, he told us to take as many pictures as possible so we could capture and enjoy the beauty in everything. He allowed us to stop whenever we thought something was picture perfect, I will never forget that.
-Omolara Clay, Class of 2020
Last week, AAPS lost one of its beloved Latin teachers, Pioneer's own Mr. Julius. I only had his class for a year, but I wish it had been longer. Over the last year I've come to know him as one of the most loving and open-hearted people I've ever met. He was generous and humble, reserved and wise, and incredibly devoted to his family and his students. I got to know him on the Latin trip to Greece and Italy this year, where we spent a couple of afternoons together. One at a museum in Rome, and one walking the streets of Florence. I have good reason to believe that the "accidental" extra tickets he procured to the first were no such thing. That's who Julius was -- he loved to see his students' passion for history, art, and literature; he loved to see our wonder and our awe, and he went out of his way to show us to what inspired us.
I've never read Ulysses, so I cannot offer him the words he might have thought most fitting. Holding him, his family, and our class in my heart right now. Discipuli discipulaeque Latinae, quod dixerit: sic itur ad astra. Vale Juli.
-Daria Chamness Class 0f 2017
Mr. Julius, our beloved Latin teacher at Pioneer, passed away unexpectedly just before the beginning of this school year. Mr. Julius taught at Pioneer for just two years, but he was a part of the Ann Arbor school district for countless years, as a teacher at Huron. During his too short time at Pioneer, Mr. Julius impacted many students, and continuously contributed to the community. He was passionate about what he taught, and was eager to share his knowledge and love of learning with his students. Ask Mr. Julius any question, whether it be about language, history, economics, science, or Spiderman, and he was sure to have an answer. Mr. Julius never made learning scary, and created a fun, relaxed, environment. Instead of tests, he administered FLAIs, Friendly Little Assessment Instruments. Despite his unconventional and relaxed teaching methods, Mr, Julius was an excellent Latin teacher, with many students receiving honors and awards on the National Latin Exam. At least five or six times in the year, Mr. Julius brought in Washtenaw Dairy doughnuts for all of his students. The occasion? A holiday only Mr. Julius would remember, like Julius Caesar’s birthday or the Ides of March.
Outside of class, Mr. Julius continued to enrich the lives of many students. He revived the Latin Club, where students discussed Latin, ate food, and watched movies about mythology. There were few in the club, and we didn’t do much, but Mr. Julius made an effort to make sure that we saw the fun side of Latin and language. In May, Mr. Julius organized a trip to the Michigan Latin Day. While others may have asked for a bus, or not gone at all, Mr. Julius and his students walked, parading down main street, toting a Radio Flyer wagon a few of us had converted into a Roman style chariot for a race at Elbel field. After Latin day, Mr. Julius took all 90 students out for ice cream, and despite the size of our group he paid for everyone. Mr. Julius never ceased to be a generous, kind, intelligent, and helpful. As we left his class at the end of the school year, we never would have guessed that it would be the last time we saw him. If we knew, there would have been so many things to thank him for. Desideraberis, Mr. Julius, and thank you for all you gave to Pioneer and the world.
-Helen Brush Class of 2020
Mr Julius was a teacher who taught his students not through lecture after lecture, but through captivating stories and topics which us students could easily relate to. His unique personality truly appealed to me and I thoroughly enjoyed learning from him, although it was only for a years. I can vividly remember all the strange movies that he showed in class, and to my delight, he actually showed full movies, rather than turning clips into a learning “experience”. On top of that, he never rushed through any material, and cared about each and every person in the class understanding it and unlocking their fullest potential in Latin. Mr Julius, I want to thank you for your time here, and your energetic spirit and passion toward learning and teaching will always be with us.
-Harrison He Class of 2020