A Tribute to a Mentor: Professor Bill Russo

Forty years have passed since the summer of 1985, when I prepared to transfer to The University of Alabama—marking the start of a transformative chapter shaped by an extraordinary man, Professor Bill Russo. On this quiet evening, August 10, 2025, at 9:30 PM , I find myself reflecting on that moment: leaving behind the familiar hills and culture of New England, the vibrant pulse of Boston, and stepping into the unknown.

It was under Professor Russo’s guidance that I first discovered the enduring power of the written word—a journey made all the more profound by his thoughtful reply to a letter I sent him a year later, in October 1986.

I remember the first time I sat in his classroom: a young man wrestling with dyslexia, poor spelling, and an almost paralyzing inability to express my thoughts. Where I saw only limitation, he saw potential. He became more than a teacher—he was a friend, a younger brother in spirit, and a steady beacon of encouragement. That faith was reaffirmed in his 1986 letter, where he celebrated my progress and wryly compared my time at Curry College to a kind of purgatory—one I had emerged from stronger and more determined.

Just two years before that summer, at age 20, I had been told I could not pursue my passion for writing because of my academic struggles. I called myself the most inept writer I knew. But under Professor Russo’s wing, that changed. He devoted hours to helping me shape my essays and encouraged me to join a special class to nurture my potential. Over the course of one semester, he transformed a hesitant, fragmented writer into someone whose work earned “A” grades—a testament not only to his teaching skill, but to his unwavering belief in me.

He reminded me often that knowledge is power, and that through it, I could build a life of meaning. His humor lightened the weight of my self-doubt—like the time he jokingly suggested submitting my work to Playgirl magazine, confident they’d call me back. Behind the jest was a message: you have something worth sharing.

Years later, I met another young man from my hometown—a boy who mirrored my struggles: high memory capacity, poor penmanship, poor spelling, and a poor attitude toward school. Like me, he had been placed in special classes early on, burdened by labels that threatened to limit his future. I feared dyslexia might lead him down one of two roads—criminal or intellectual—and I was determined to guide him toward the latter, just as Russo had guided me. Even now, I wonder whether I succeeded, and whether my encouragement altered his course in the way Russo’s shaped mine.

Professor Russo’s influence extended far beyond academics. He connected me with peers—Matt Bellomo, Adam Froelich, and Dave Staley—each striving to refine their craft. In his 1986 letter, he shared updates from Curry: his pride in students like Glen Chesley, his creative work in plays, and a Civil War theater production. I carried those stories forward, sharing them with others, including that young man I hoped to help—always urging perseverance.

I hold little patience for educators who lack compassion, but Russo taught me what true mentorship looks like: patience, humor, and a faith in a student’s potential that can last a lifetime. Though my academic journey took me south to Alabama, his lessons came with me, a light that has never dimmed.

Forty years on, I still think about that young man from my hometown. I cannot know for certain if my efforts made a difference—but I know this: Bill Russo’s legacy lives on in me, and in every person I’ve tried to encourage in his honor. His voice from that 1986 letter still echoes—warm, supportive, and unshakably confident that I would succeed.