A Web site for students and friends of journalism
© 2010 William A. Mulligan, Ph.D. All rights reserved.
Professor of Journalism, former department chairman
California State University, Long Beach
Roger V.
Wetherington Jr., Ph.D.
1942-2009
By STEVE MITCHELL
I met my life partner — Paula Selleck — in the campus newspaper office at California State University, Long Beach in the late '70s.
We would both meet — in that same newsroom — a man we grew to revere and love as a brilliant teacher and dear lifelong friend — Roger Wetherington.
Sometimes you just get lucky.
Roger came to Cal State from a job as assistant city editor of The New York Daily News.
He would
serve a distinguished tenure as Editorial Director of the campus laboratory
paper — its top hands-on faculty position. I, for one, was so impressed and
grateful to be mentored by a man of his stature.
Roger was extraordinary: An accomplished professional from the gritty and hyper-competitive news market of New York City, a gifted teacher, a thoughtfully inspirational leader and a human being of uncommon grace, humor and kindness.
A man who demanded the best from his students, yet was always
aware you were young, and in the process of learning the complicated and
pressure-cooked craft of reporting, writing and truth-telling that was —and
is — essential to the preservation of our American Democracy.
It was perhaps his most dramatic teaching talent that he could convey knowledge and guidance to an inquisitive student in a way that built confidence, rather than shake it.
He had a magic mix of tough love, human compassion and sensitive understanding.
You learned from Roger because you respected his advice and constructive
criticism. He was there to help you …You could see it in his kind, knowing
eyes.
After the college years, Paula and I were blessed to enjoy a continuing relationship with Roger and his family— Andra and son Brady.
We spent any number of nights in joyful and raucous debates on the issues of life, its realities, absurdities and possibilities, before enjoying a meal together.
Roger’s love for life would
sometimes explode on these nights as he belted out his favorite music from
superstars of The Opera — while we would urge him to enjoy the far less
sophisticated tunes that were sweeping the popular culture.
Our world has lost a beautifully complex, intellectual, caring and soulful man whose greatest possession was not a fancy car or an expensive watch or a trophy — but rather, a true heart of gold.
That humane, loving heart of his touched his family,
friends, colleagues and students with something far more precious and
infinitely more lasting than the specious material riches of our planet.
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Stephen M. Mitchell served under Roger Wetherington as editor of the California State University, Long Beach campus newspaper in 1978.
He worked at the Orange County, Calif., Register for five years, the last two as Page 1 news editor/designer and night side operations supervisor.
He left the Register for the Los Angeles Times in 1983, serving in a number of positions until 2008.
In his decade-long stint as executive news
editor/ metropolitan, he shared in three team Pulitzer Prizes as the top
supervisor of news/copy desk operations for the Times’ coverage of breaking
news events.
Paula J. Selleck is currently senior communications officer at California State University, Fullerton — serving as the school’s top media spokesperson.
In her 25 years as a leader in the public affairs operation, the department has won top awards for its publications.
She previously worked as a staff writer and freelancer for the Los Angeles Times; a contributing editor and theatre reviewer for a Los Angeles arts magazine; a staff writer for community newspapers in Bellflower and San Clemente; and as a newscaster for a Long Beach radio station.
Well, time wore on, and as I had known would happen, I heard again and again the problems Roger suffered at his work. I believed him and encouraged him whenever he thought a change was in order.
He decided to leave Cal State Long Beach to accept a position at Cal State Northridge, and then he lamented the injustices at Cal State Northridge and came back to Long Beach.
Finally, it was time to move back to New York – he was hired by St. John’s. I went with him to his final Journalism banquet – held shortly before that move – I was presenting awards from The Long Beach chapter of Business Communicators to two students.
We entered the banquet room and were seated together but in about two minutes, Roger was out of his chair, moving from one group of students to another and having a wonderful time. It seemed that every third speech lamented that Roger was leaving Long Beach and thanking him for his great teaching and mentoring.
I have to say, from my perspective, this was astounding. I was thrilled and happy for Roger, but completely taken aback to realize that the story I was hearing from him did not match the reality of his experience. And I have to admit I allowed myself to lament somewhat that this amazing comeraderie I was witnessing didn’t seep more into our home life.
There was no question that the love of Roger’s life was teaching. He poured himself into it and it nourished him. I was happy to learn that he was so beloved, and the travails I kept hearing about were truly minor in comparison to the positive side.
Well, the time came for my departure. Brady was old enough and had become an independent and delightfully voluble boy. Roger was fully embroiled in teaching, preparing classes and grading papers. They could do well without me there.
When Roger was preparing to move to St. John’s, Brady and I were going to stay in Southern California – I was sure I was too old to get a decent job and felt I should stay were I was, in the p.r. department of Downey Community Hospital.
But in the end, I decided that the lure of New York was too great. We traveled together to New York, I settled in Manhattan and Roger in Queens. Brady moved back and forth between us and we were content. Brady wondered why we ever left this marvelous place to live in Southern California.
Roger and I continued our friendship, occasionally attending operas together, plays and the like. He’d sleep on my couch when doing the late editing shift Friday nights at the Times, and we continued to compare notes on our son and his doings. We celebrated the usual family occasions, but now we did not accompany each other on visits to his family in Georgia and my family in California.
We were together last Thanksgiving when Roger had his first seizure. His cousin Kathy, he and I had watched the Macy’s parade from these windows, and after that we went to a movie to kill some time before Thanksgiving dinner was served. The movie barely started when it happened, and the paramedics took us to Bellevue Hospital. There he had yet another seizure and was admitted to stay overnight.
This marked the end of his teaching career. Roger had never been good at keeping organized, and now, he had trouble remembering things and was unable to find things or to prepare classes, and the department had to scramble to finish up the semester for him. Unable to teach, Roger’s heart was broken.
Gentle nudgings to take up fiction writing, something he’d always wanted to do, got him to register in a short-story class, but he never attended. Suggestions that he volunteer to help the student newspaper at the high school across the street from his apartment were enthusiastically accepted, but not acted upon.
Dear Roger had lost his will and his way. The lifelong depression he had battled took hold, and with the aid of his beverage of choice melted him away.
I miss him.
By ANDRA MILLER
I heard about Roger Wetherington long before I met him.
His name was often mentioned in the public relations office of the New York City Health and Hospitals Corp., where I was a newly hired p.r. lady.
Roger Wetherington was the “fair” reporter, the one who dug into the story and always searched out the responses of the Health and Hospital people.
The first time I saw this giant of a man was through the door to my boss’s office. The great Roger Wetherington was sitting on my boss’s desk, furiously writing on a reporter’s notepad, repeatedly pushing his sliding glasses back up his nose and fluffing his moustache. I thought the great Roger Wetherington was cute.
Later, when he called me to ask for more facts on a news release I had sent out, he said, you’re sounding happy – and I said yes, I’d just had a St. Patrick’s day lunch with a mutual friend, the p.r. lady at St. Vincent’s Hospital – we’d dined at Costello’s.
Roger took umbrage. “Why that’s right around the corner from the Daily News, why didn’t you call me?” I said that I didn’t know where the Daily News was, and he said that my friend Pat certainly knew and if we’d called he’d have come over and at least bought us a drink – and I said, well if you want to buy me a drink, I’ll meet you at Costello’s after work and you can.
And so it was. I brought my sister, Anore, who was visiting at the time, and he brought Steve McFarland, whose recollections you’ll soon be hearing, and the four of us had a great evening of eating, drinking, singing, joking, late-night cooking, and all-around tomfoolery.
I found Roger to be a delightfully funny guy, affectionate, caring, loaded with all kinds of facts that well-educated people like him always carry around with them – and he was amazingly witty. In the late night, hilariously wild, singing opera full-voice and awfully – while waiting for a subway train – and, along with Steve, incredibly entertaining.
So, since I also appealed to him, we started dating. My friends were jealous. He took me to an opera gala that he was reviewing for the News. And to operas, and to the track – he loved horse racing, when a boy he said he wanted to grow up to be a jockey or a horse – and to dinners and parties, and to all sorts of cultural events. Roger was the perfect boyfriend.
And then, flying back from a vacation to visit my family, it occurred to me that I was pregnant. This couldn’t be!I had the perfect job, the perfect boyfriend, the perfect apartment, the perfect life – I didn’t need this!
I spent about two seconds thinking about ending it, and then about how theatrically wonderful it would be, me the fallen woman, echoing Hester Prynne in The Scarlet Letter, having my little girl, like her Pearl, outside of wedlock and quietly doing good works.
But Roger would have none of this. We must get married. I liked Roger, I enjoyed his company, but though I knew he’d be a great father, I had doubts about him as a husband. He often drank too much, he was always complaining about how things were unfair at work, and I felt I had the upper hand with him, not the best start of a 50/50 relationship.
But as he was relentless and the appeal of Hester’s fate seemed to fade, Roger sealed the deal by buying us wonderful wedding rings and an amazing diamond engagement ring for me. He was willing to cast doubt aside, and so I did too.
It was not a mistake. We had some wonderful times together. And my little “Pearl,” turned out to be our son Brady Miller Wetherington – who some wag at the Daily News thought that they should take up a collection for – to buy him a first name.
We moved to Long Beach, California, so that Roger could accept a position teaching journalism – I got a transfer to the Los Angeles office of my firm. We wound up living in Downey, in a house with a lovely pool where Brady could attend the excellent public schools.
Roger loved teaching, though grading was at first an awful trial. He loved living in a house in the Los Angeles area although L.A. had no opera – we had to drive to San Diego for that. He loved being the man of the house, tending the pool (which required almost daily adjustments of chemicals to stay clear and clean), and mowing the lawn.
He joined with Brady an Indian Guide group, a Y organization for young boys and their fathers, and relished the comraderie of other fathers and sons – along with the wearing of headbands and feathers, the meetings in the various homes, and the taking of sacred vows of good stewardship.
He was a warm and generous father and husband. I’d ask him for five dollars and he’d insist on giving me ten – or would $20 be better? He listened to our problems and became incensed at the injustices we claimed we suffered. While the rest of us started out baby talking to Brady, he always spoke to him as though he were a grownup, and as a result, Brady’s vocabulary at the age of three outstripped most peoples’ at 23, and he still surprises me with the wealth of words he has at his disposal.
