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.
