A Legacy Ends

Originally published on June 9, 2018 – Updated for reposting

I'll add more and change the writing as it comes to me… This one is emotional.

Thirty years ago, a young, angry, disabled, and confused little boy arrived at Bolsa Grande High School not knowing what to expect. Little did he (now she) know that a single person would have such an impact on her life—and become one of her greatest friends and advocates. In addition to teaching her.

In 1986, Jim Keltner—Mr. Keltner—also arrived at that same school to teach a fledgling choral and drama department. Over the next four years, both of our lives—and the culture of the school—changed dramatically.

Mr. Keltner (I’ve always called him that, even now) taught me that everyone was equal. On the first day of class, he said, “I don’t care if you think you sing good or bad. I’m going to teach you how to sing—and how to love music.”

Well... he did.

Fast forward to June 8, 2018…

I had the somber honor of attending Mr. Keltner’s final performance as the Choir Teacher for Bolsa Grande High School.

It’s no secret that, back in high school—and even now—I’ve been known to tell some pretty wild stories. But anyone who attended Mr. Keltner’s farewell concert that night saw one thing that wasn’t wild at all: me. Fully, truly me. My transition isn’t a rumor. It’s not a story. It’s my life.

Yes, some comments were made. Yes, some looks were given. And yes, it was uncomfortable. For me, and maybe for those seeing me again after so many years—especially if you only knew me as Sherry Dansby… or “Eddie.”

But I wasn’t there to make a statement. I wasn’t there to make anyone uncomfortable. I was there for him. Mr. Keltner and I share a unique bond—one that, I’d like to believe, runs deeper than blood.

Many of you don’t know this, but Mr. Keltner and I share the same illness. The one people used to make fun of me for—joking that I was “flapping like a fish” or saying things like, “Hold my milk, I’d love a milkshake.” You might not have realized it then, but when you made fun of me, you were also making fun of him… and of every other person who lives with that same condition.

I forgave those moments a long time ago. But that doesn’t mean they don’t still sting sometimes.

But pain teaches you who you are—and who’s in your corner. And through it all, Mr. Keltner stood in mine.

He never treated me differently. Not because I was a kid struggling with my identity, or because of my disability. He saw me—the potential, the heart, the voice. When I was drowning in anger, he gave me music. When I felt alone, he gave me a place to belong. And when I started to understand who I really was, he accepted me without hesitation.

That night, watching him conduct for the last time, I saw the same passion he had all those years ago. The same patience. The same fire. It was beautiful… and bittersweet.

To those of you who didn’t understand me then—and maybe still don’t now—I forgive you. That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. It just means I won’t let that pain define me anymore.

Mr. Keltner taught me that music has the power to transcend everything—gender, ability, race, circumstance. And if you were lucky enough to be in his classroom, you know what I mean. He taught us to listen. To feel. To respect the process. And above all, to respect each other.

So this post is for you, Mr. Keltner.

Thank you for seeing me when others didn’t.
Thank you for giving me a voice—literally and figuratively.
And thank you for 30+ years of changing lives with music, compassion, and quiet strength.

Your legacy isn’t just in the songs we sang. It’s in the lives you touched.

With love and gratitude,
Sherry Dansby