RIP My Professor, My Friend, My Co-Author

 

The Friend and Mentor I Lost

Bronte Herbert Reynolds

December 14, 1939 – October 20, 2025

By: Dr. Soraya Fallah

 

How often in life do we meet someone who embodies so many meaningful roles at once—a knowledgeable guide, a kind and steady presence, a father figure, a trusted friend, a professor, and even a co-author?

For me, that person was Dr. Bronte H. Reynolds.

 

Today marks the day I met Bronte for the first time, about 13 years ago, when we gathered for our doctoral orientation. I still remember him exactly as he was then. I remember his presence, his warmth, his gentle smile, and the way he carried himself. I still see him as he appears in this picture.

Bronte was the first person who taught many of us what leadership truly means in a school setting. He opened our eyes to the power of vision, values, systems, ethics, and humanity. He introduced us to authors and books that continue to guide our professional lives—works that became our compass as we learned to lead.

These were not just readings. Bronte made them come alive.

He showed us how to apply what we learned, how to live those principles, and how to carry them into every classroom, every meeting, and every challenge. Because of him, we carry a piece of his teaching—and a piece of his heart—with us forever.

Our relationship continued long after I graduated. We remained in constant contact, and over time, our relationship grew beyond professor and student. He became my friend, my mentor, and someone I trusted deeply.

When I began putting together my research with the hope of turning it into a book, I approached Bronte. I knew he would be a perfect person to have on that journey. His more than fifty-three years of service in education included roles as a teacher, principal, superintendent, professor, and department chair. He guided districts through major transitions, mentored future leaders at CSUN, and continued teaching as adjunct faculty at California Lutheran University, as his daughter Annika shared.

When I first approached Bronte about my book project, he was not particularly interested in the topic—at least not until he reached the chapter centered on equity and inclusion. That was the moment his curiosity awakened.

 

True to his lifelong commitment to justice in education, he leaned in.

He accepted my request and agreed to become part of the project I had poured four years of my life into. He supported me throughout the process, carefully reading drafts, offering thoughtful feedback, and contributing his knowledge and experience.

Together, we completed Learning Challenges for Culturally and Linguistically Diverse (CLD) Students With Disabilities.

He was so proud of me and of the final manuscript.

I was equally proud to have him beside me.

But our book was not simply a professional accomplishment. It represented the trust, friendship, and intellectual connection that had grown between us.

I remember how we talked and brainstormed about my research, my ideas, and the possibility of turning my work into a book. Bronte did not simply tell me what to do. He listened. He asked questions. He challenged my thinking. He encouraged me to believe that my ideas were worth pursuing.

That was Bronte.

 

But the Bronte I knew was far more than his distinguished titles.

He was someone who listened without judgment, who believed in the potential of others, who offered wisdom with kindness, and whose presence brought clarity and calm.

He was the kind of mentor whose influence stayed with you long after the conversation ended.

In the months before his passing, I often called him—hoping to hear his voice, to receive one more piece of guidance, one more moment of connection.

My last calls went unanswered, and my messages received no response.

I never imagined those silences were final.

For this, I carry deep sorrow.

But I know I am not alone in this grief. I share it with many members of my doctoral cohort, my CSUN alumni family, and colleagues across the profession. We have all lost someone who shaped us profoundly.

And recently, when I posted in our doctoral cohort WhatsApp group that Bronte was no longer with us, several of us immediately began sharing our memories of him. We talked about his legacy and the profound effect he had on us as our first professor.

Listening to others speak about him reminded me once again of how extraordinary he was.

And yet, his professional legacy stands on its own remarkable foundation.

His 2024 book, Leadership and the School Principal, is a testament to his knowledge, his voice, and his lifelong commitment to shaping future generations of educational leaders.

Beyond all of this, Bronte was a devoted father to two daughters and a son, and a loving grandfather to seven grandchildren. His family grounded him, just as his values grounded his leadership.

 

But to me, no matter how many accomplishments or accolades are listed, he will always be the rare and irreplaceable human being whose impact reached my work, my thinking, and my life.

His absence is deeply felt, but his influence is eternal.

This is the Bronte that I knew—

A leader.
A scholar.
A mentor.
A professor.
A friend.
My co-author.

And a soul whose light continues to guide me and my entire doctoral cohort.

Farewell, Bronte.
Farewell, my professor.
Farewell, my friend.

I do not need an anniversary to remember you.

Sometimes, a conversation, a place, a book, a photograph, or a simple memory brings you back to me—to your soft and friendly voice, your smile, and the wisdom you so generously shared.

And when that happens, it is always worth pausing to remember.

Today, I remember the day I first met you.

Thirteen years later, I realize that meeting you was one of the gifts of my doctoral journey.

Thank you for teaching me.

Thank you for believing in me.

Thank you for becoming my friend.

Thank you for becoming my co-author.

And thank you for leaving a piece of yourself in all of us.

RIP, my professor.
RIP, my friend.
RIP, my co-author.

You are deeply missed.

But your teaching, your kindness, your wisdom, and your legacy live on in all of us who had the privilege of knowing you.

Love Needs New Rituals

Love Needs New Rituals

There comes a point in every long relationship when love quietly changes its language.

It no longer lives only in passionate conversations, anniversaries, or vacations. Instead, it hides in ordinary days—how we greet each other after work, whether we notice each other's efforts, whether we remain curious about the person we thought we already knew.

Lately, I have been reflecting on something unexpected: a hillside.

After spending nearly forty years living in apartments or homes with little or no yard, we moved into a house surrounded by trees, hillsides, walking paths, and a small meditation room overlooking nature. It felt like we had been handed a completely different way of living.

To me, the property became much more than land.

It became possibility.

I found myself outside clearing dry vegetation, organizing storage spaces, painting old toolboxes, cleaning pathways, making the property safer, and simply learning the rhythm of the land. None of it felt like another chore. It felt almost therapeutic.

Hours disappeared without my noticing.

The work became exercise without a gym, meditation without a formal practice, creativity without a canvas, and stress relief without medication. After spending so many years sitting behind a computer, working with my hands reminded me that human beings were never designed to spend their entire lives indoors.

What surprised me was not how much I loved this new ritual.

What surprised me was how alone I felt in it.

The excitement I felt about caring for our property was not shared by my husband. He viewed many of these activities as unnecessary or as work that should be left to the gardener. I viewed them as opportunities—not only to care for our home but also to create a new chapter in our lives together.

Over time, I realized we were not arguing about weeds, pathways, or storage sheds.

We were seeing the same house through two very different lenses.

Instead of allowing those differences to become another unresolved disagreement, I decided to write him a respectful letter. I wanted him to understand that my feelings were never really about landscaping. They were about feeling encouraged instead of discouraged, understood instead of dismissed, and about my hope that we could create new experiences together as a couple.

Writing that letter became something larger than resolving one disagreement.

It became a reflection on relationships themselves.

Sometimes two people can look at exactly the same experience and see completely different things.

One person sees unnecessary work.

The other sees an opportunity to build a life.

Neither perspective is inherently wrong. But problems begin when curiosity disappears and criticism arrives before understanding.

I realized how deeply encouragement matters.

Not because we need constant praise, but because appreciation gives meaning to effort.

Most of us are not looking for applause. We are hoping someone notices.

A smile.

A hug.

A simple "Thank you."

Those small moments feed the heart far more than we realize.

The experience made me think about something much larger than a hillside.

Long-term relationships cannot survive on love alone.

Love is the foundation, but foundations are not where people live.

Relationships also need nourishment.

They need new experiences.

New rituals.

New traditions.

New adventures that belong only to the two people creating a life together.

Without those things, life slowly becomes a cycle of work, responsibilities, errands, bills, and exhaustion.

The relationship doesn't usually end dramatically.

It simply becomes repetitive.

Comfortable.

Predictable.

Hungry.

I have come to believe that every chapter of life asks couples to discover new ways of connecting.

For one couple, it may be learning to dance.

For another, traveling.

For someone else, volunteering together, hiking, gardening, building furniture, cooking, photography, camping, or restoring an old house.

The activity itself is almost irrelevant.

Its purpose is much deeper.

Shared experiences create shared memories.

Shared memories become emotional glue.

They remind us that we are not simply managing a household together—we are still building a life together.

We often spend years investing in careers, raising children, paying mortgages, and planning for retirement.

How often do we intentionally invest in creating new experiences as a couple?

Relationships require maintenance just as homes do.

We repaint walls before they peel.

We replace roofs before they leak.

We maintain our cars before they fail.

Yet many of us assume our relationships will somehow continue flourishing without intentional care.

They rarely do.

The healthiest relationships I have observed are not necessarily the ones without disagreements.

They are the ones where both people continue discovering each other.

Where curiosity survives.

Where appreciation is expressed.

Where new rituals replace old routines.

Perhaps that is what this house has been teaching me.

The hillside was never really about weeds.

It was about growth.

The pathways were never only paths through nature.

They were invitations to walk beside each other.

The meditation room was never simply another structure.

It was a reminder that peace is something we intentionally create.

I do not know whether my letter will change anything.

But I do know that writing it changed me. It reminded me that relationships deserve honest, respectful conversations about our hopes—not just our frustrations. Sometimes putting our hearts on paper is itself an act of love.

Love does not grow only through words.

It grows through shared experiences.

Through mutual respect.

Through encouragement.

Through gratitude.

Through choosing, again and again, to build something meaningful together.

Perhaps every relationship eventually reaches a moment when it must ask a simple question:

What new rituals will nourish us now?

Because relationships, like gardens, do not flourish simply because they were once beautiful.

They flourish because someone continues to care for them.

A Year of Service, Growth, and Boundaries

A Year of Service, Growth, and Boundaries

Jwange

June 11,26

Today marks my final day at one of the schools I supported this year. I was on campus only a couple of days each week, which adds up to roughly eighty days over the course of the school year. As I sit here trying to finish paperwork and organize the last details before summer, the room is buzzing with conversations, a television is playing in the background, and people continue coming and going. It feels like a fitting reflection of the year itself—busy, loud, and full of activity.

This year challenged me in ways I did not expect. The school environment was often filled with strong personalities, competing viewpoints, and ongoing tensions. At times, it felt as though every conversation eventually led back to school politics, conflicts, or speculation about what was happening behind the scenes. People gathered regularly to discuss issues, share concerns, and form opinions. I made a conscious effort to stay focused on my role and avoid becoming entangled in situations that were beyond my responsibility.

What struck me most was how much energy people invested in workplace dynamics. Some individuals chose to leave, others were asked to move on, and many experienced significant changes in their professional paths. Watching these events unfold reminded me how quickly organizational climates can shift and how important it is to protect one's own well-being amid uncertainty.

Despite the distractions, I remained incredibly busy throughout the year. My days were filled with meetings, family support, consultations, referrals, workshops, and problem-solving. The office often became a gathering place for staff from different departments and roles, each bringing their own concerns, ideas, and stories. While these interactions helped me better understand the school community, they could also become overwhelming.

One lesson I am taking away from this year is the importance of maintaining professional boundaries. It is possible to be supportive, collaborative, and caring without becoming absorbed in every conflict or controversy. I am proud that I built positive relationships with many people while staying focused on the work I was hired to do.

I also met individuals whose professionalism left a lasting impression on me. One person in particular demonstrated a calm confidence that I greatly admired. She communicated thoughtfully, made decisions based on her values and priorities, and understood the importance of balancing work with personal wellness. Her example reminded me that strength is not always loud; sometimes it is reflected in knowing what matters most and having the courage to act accordingly.

As I close out the year, I feel a sense of relief. The workload was heavy, the environment was demanding, and there were many moments that tested my patience and resilience. Yet I leave with valuable lessons, meaningful connections, and a deeper understanding of how to navigate complex workplace cultures.

Most of all, I am grateful that I stayed true to myself. I learned, I served, I supported others, and I managed to keep my distance from the drama that surrounded me. That may be one of the most important accomplishments of all. Now they all watching World’s cup…

 

وقتی سکوت، سنگین‌تر از فریاد است?!

جواب ابلهان خاموشی است....
 

گاهی در زندگی با افرادی روبه‌رو می‌شویم که ظاهر آرام و منطقی دارند، اما حضورشان کم‌کم ما را فرسوده می‌کند. من نزدیک به هجده ماه است که با کسی کار می‌کنم که بیش از پنج سال است او را می‌شناسم. در ظاهر، آدم بدی نیست؛ اما احساسی که درونم شکل گرفته، چیزی میان خستگی و بی‌ارزشی است.

او همیشه می‌خواهد ثابت کند که بهتر است، داناتر است، و من اشتباه می‌کنم. هر نظری می‌دهم، مخالفت می‌کند. هر پیشنهادی می‌دهم، در اولین واکنش می‌گوید «نه». وقتی به من نیاز دارد، لحنش نرم‌تر می‌شود، اما به‌محض اینکه خواسته‌اش برآورده شد، باز همان سردی و عصبانیت برمی‌گردد.

گاهی با خودم می‌گویم سکوت کنم.
می‌گویند «جواب ابلهان خاموشی است.»
اما نمی‌دانم — آیا این سکوت نشانه‌ی خرد است یا نشانه‌ی ضعف؟
آیا سکوت من باعث شده او ادامه دهد؟
آیا با سکوت خود، به او اجازه داده‌ام فکر کند رفتارش طبیعی است؟

امروز هم مثال خوبی بود. گفت: «ساعت کاری‌ات را بفرست.»
بعد با لحنی محکم پرسید: «آخر ماه خوب است، مثل ماه قبل؟»
پاسخ دادم: «بله، مثل سپتامبر…»
اما صدایش را بلند کرد و گفت: «من راجع به سپتامبر حرف نمی‌زنم. الان! این ماه!»
و حتی نخواست بقیه‌ی حرفم را بشنود. بعد، با همان لحن آمرانه گفت:
«این فایل را اصلاح کرده‌ام، می‌خواهم یاد بگیری که این‌طوری کار کنی.»
دلم می‌خواست بگویم: تو چهار برابر من حقوق می‌گیری!
اما فقط گفتم: «بسیار خوب، من که ادعایی نداشته‌ام. دستت درد نکند.»
و در سکوت، فقط نگاهش کردم.

به نتیجه رسیده‌ام که با همه نمی‌شود جر‌ و بحث کرد.
یک‌ بار به دنیا می‌آییم، و این ذهن و بدن خسته‌ام بیش از هر چیز به آرامش نیاز دارد.
حیف است این انرژی را صرف کسی کنم که نمی‌خواهد بفهمد.
در آن لحظات، به کارت فکر کن.
به امکان پیشرفت آینده‌ات.
به چک و پولی که می‌تواند زندگی‌ات را بهتر کند.
و یاد حرف مادرم می‌افتم که با خنده می‌گفت:
«بساب به اونجات!»
خنده‌دار است، اما راست می‌گفت — گاهی به خوبی کار می‌کند. !

مدتی طول کشید تا بفهمم، سکوت همیشه نشانه‌ی بزرگ‌منشی نیست. گاهی سکوت، دیواری می‌شود میان ما و احترام به خودمان. گاهی باید مرز گذاشت — با کلام، با نگاه، با فاصله.

امروز که این را می‌نویسم، هنوز در حال یادگیری‌ام. یاد می‌گیرم که می‌توان مؤدب بود، اما محکم.
می‌توان مهربان ماند، اما اجازه نداد کسی ارزش ما را کم کند.
می‌توان در کنار دیگران بود، بدون آنکه خود را گم کرد.

نوشتن هم خیلی کمکم می‌کند.
کاش زمانی می‌توانستم این نوشته‌ها را نشانش بدهم، اما او نباید رقمی در زندگی من باشد.
کاش آنقدر پول داشتم که مجبور نبودم با او کار کنم.

شاید سکوت همیشه جواب نباشد.
گاهی باید صدای درون خودت را بشنوی — صدایی که می‌گوید:
«تو کافی هستی، حتی اگر دیگران نخواهند بپذیرند.»

PODCAST Soraya: Where is our pain mother

https://open.spotify.com/episode/1A1Hn07JYiGvDhTkoMfZm6?si=7d89c73e060d49a4

listen to the podcast

The song, Where Is Our Pain Mother was originally sung in Kurdish, with the lyrics written and later translated by Soraya Fallah, who also performs the vocals. The electronic music was composed by Omid Rafizadeh.

In this piece, Soraya speaks about the atrocities and injustices her people—the Kurds—have endured. Yet, she illustrates the fear experienced by many who are unable to speak the truth. Out of this fear, she either avoids mentioning these events directly or employs sarcasm and irony. It is as if she is pretending these events never happened, while the reader or listener clearly understands the painful truth. Through this contrast, the song conveys the deep suffering of her nation beneath a surface of denial.

The lyrics take the form of a letter to her mother, who lives 14,000 kilometers away.

Soraya never sent this letter to her mother, fearing it might put her in danger, even in her old age. Instead, she transformed it into a song of resistance—a piece that is not only her voice, but also the collective voice of a grieving nation. As an act of resistance against all forms of injustice and genocide, she dedicated the song to stand against genocide itself.

Dr. Soraya Fallah is a researcher and activist. She is deeply concerned about the rights of people and uses her voice—through writing, advocacy, and other forms of expression—to unveil injustice, amplify silenced stories, and call for equity and human dignity. You can listen to the song here.

Following our conversation.

 

You can listen to the song here:

 

Letter to Mother

My dear mother,
I think only of myself.
Where should I place the pain of happiness and joy?

All the news is bright, everyone is well.
All the photos gleam with beauty.

No images of the fallen (refers to the fact that almost every day people are hanged or killed, and images are revealed by local people on the internet).
No whispers of the tortured.
No broken maps (refers to the Kurdish map that is divided and broken by the borders of different countries in the Middle East).
No shredded documents (refers to all evidence of killings, executions, torture, and people’s memoirs—as well as books that were banned).

No shadows of the fallen,
No traces of the tortured.
No torn maps,
No shredded documents.

My dear mother,
Seriously—where is our pain?
We have no sorrow at all—
As if we never knew worry or fear (using the word “we” refers to a collective people and the grief of a community. And “not having fear” refers to Soraya’s nation being wrongfully encouraged that they should not give meaning to grief, but instead sacrifice and glorify martyrs for other nations, as if they must not fear dying or worry).

No shadows of the fallen,
No traces of the tortured.
No torn maps,
No shredded documents.

You know better than I:
Long ago, the head of Pishewa Ghazi was never hanged (she uses the name of Pishewa Ghazi as a symbol of a leader who was executed by hanging for playing a significant role in Kurdish history).
The massacre of our youth never happened (she refers to the massacre of Kurdish young people and the collective grief imposed by the regimes under which they live).
The bodies of our young girls were never scarred (refers to young underage girls who were tortured and raped for being part of the movement for rights).

دایه گیان به سڵاو

خه مێکمان نیه

نه خۆم نه خێزان نه منداڵه کان

تێر و تۆق ئه ژین پڕ له خوشی و نیان

نه درگای داخراو نه کۆت و زیندان

تێر و تۆق ئه ژین پڕ له خوشی و نیان

نه درگای داخراو نه کۆت و زیندان

دایه گیان به سڵاو

دایه گیان به سڵاو

نه هه ڵ له رزینیش له سه رمای زستان

نه شه لاق و خوێن نه جسه سته ی خه ستان

نه ده م درونیش له سه ری زمان

نه مه رگی کوڵبه ر

نه مه رگی کوڵبه ر

نه خه فه تی سه ر

نه وه ک په پوله به بێ هێلانه

نه وه ک په پوله ش به بێ هێلانه

دایه گیان به سلاو

دایه گیان به سلاو

 

Highlight of my Day "The First Hour That Felt Like a Beginning, Hilda and I"

 

Highlight of my Day "The First Hour That Felt Like a Beginning, Hilda and I"

Today I had my first long conversation with my niece, Hilda. For over an hour on a WhatsApp video call, we talked like old friends, moving between small stories and big thoughts. She is thirteen or fourteen, that age when many teenagers rush through words, but Hilda was different. She was calm, content, and present, as if she had all the time in the world.

Before this session, I worked on a "digital time reduction guide for teens" in both English and Farsi for her. I reminded her that this table is not an obligation, but a lifestyle, something to add on top of what she already knows and does. She seemed excited about following it, as if she had found another tool to help her live with intention.

At one point, she shared her latest adventure, learning about snakes. She described their lives in nature, their patterns, their hidden beauty. Then, she told me about a particular kind that lives in the Sahara, its eyes so mesmerizing you could almost forget it might be dangerous. Her words stayed with me. Sometimes, the most beautiful things in life carry risks we do not immediately see.

We also spoke about what helps me when life feels heavy. I told her I write journal entries without worrying about big words, neat handwriting, or writing for anyone but myself. I shared that I blog casually in my liminal space, my corner for thoughts and reflections. I also told her about my Let-It-Go Jar, where I write down worries, fold them up, and drop them in, symbolically releasing them. We spoke about breaking big, overwhelming tasks into smaller steps so they feel like pebbles instead of boulders. I even showed her a simple breathing trick I use when my mind is crowded, breathing in for four seconds, holding it for seven, and breathing out slowly for eight, like letting the air carry away everything unnecessary.

At one point, I told her that I wished she were here so we could spend time together in nature, share clothes, and enjoy the simple fun of being aunt and niece in the same place. The thought made both of us smile. We have some mutuality, she has a gift of love to learn. Not all teens are like that. There is a power in that love that can make life's journey much easier, I told Hilda.

Hilda spoke fluent Kurdish, knew Farsi perfectly, and was learning English as well as the scientific language of nature, biology. She loves studying behaviors among species, as if the living world is her library. She has a long, bright life ahead of her. I was thrilled we connected. She is beautiful, deeply lovable, and wise beyond her years.

I learned from her, and I told her I would go and read more about snakes. I am curious.

Reflection

Meeting Hilda reminded me that curiosity is a powerful force, but so is the way we carry our emotions. Her fascination with snakes in the desert felt like a metaphor. In life, beauty and danger often live side by side, and the wisdom lies in recognizing both.

Our talk showed me she already has the heart of a researcher and the mind of a philosopher. I want her to know that tending to one's inner life is just as important as exploring the outer one. Tools like journaling freely, using a Let-It-Go Jar, breaking big tasks into smaller, manageable steps, and pausing to breathe deeply can make space for both curiosity and calm.

In the same way she studies nature with patience, I hope she will examine her thoughts and feelings, seeing their patterns, their beauty, and even their danger, with courage and compassion. And I will always be grateful for this first hour we spent, because it felt like opening the first page of a book I cannot wait to keep reading.

Strawberry Story (2009)

 

Strawberry Story (
SueSue

For the purpose of this story, I’ll use a pseudonym.

It was 2009, and I was supervising a small team of four in our office. Among them was E, a calm, kind, and beautiful social worker. Every day, I brought a large container of cut fruits and vegetables to work, mostly to keep myself from eating unhealthy snacks and also to share with my coworkers.

E loved strawberries and berries in general. She often brought some to share. Out of respect, she always offered them to me first, even though my desk was farther from hers. Then she would offer some to L, who sat by the window, strategically facing the boss’s office. L often said she had a plan for him.

One day, E and I found ourselves alone in the office. We began reflecting on the dynamics of our workplace. She confided in me, saying,
“L is selfish. She wants all the best things for herself. But you… you’re different. You even give me half of your cut fruit and veggies.”

She then told me something that I’ve never forgotten:
“I buy two boxes of strawberries. You see, L takes the biggest, best ones. She reaches into the basket and picks through it. She even told me once to buy the better kind. So, I go to Trader Joe’s to get organic ones, wash them carefully, and put the biggest, prettiest ones in a separate box just for her.”

Then she added,
“But with you, I don’t mind. I offer you strawberries from the second box, even if they’re smaller, maybe a little bruised, and you either politely decline or gently take the smallest one. I don’t feel used.”

At first, her words made me feel appreciated. But the story stayed with me. Later that evening, while driving home through the canyon—my usual 90-minute commute—I broke down in tears. I simply couldn’t help it. I was thinking that  I wish I would learn to pick the biggest and best strawberry.

I felt small. I felt that my humbleness had resulted in being overlooked or disrespected. It seemed like no one cared enough to give me the better one. Sometimes, we miss the best people who truly care about us, and we fail to take care of them in return.

Yes, unfortunately, we tend to give the best of ourselves and pay the most attention to someone who, as E said, is “hateful.”