I went searching on the internet for Ray Oliva, as he had a big influence on my success with writing and grammar.  I credit him with turning "that light on" for me to grasp English composition and grammar.   I was a student in his English A class in 1987 and post the textbook cover as tribute to his memory.  I still use this textbook and reflect fondly on those times and his instruction.  After English A, I took all my other English courses with Ray Oliva and attended some of his film class shows in the evening.  I remember his unique laughs next to the projector while watching "Casablanca."  This movie is now one of my all-time favorites.

I did not realize Ray had passed. Curiosity led me to search the internet and discover his passing.  I (along with most of my family) took a film appreciation class from Ray in the 1970s and it opened up my eyes to film as more than passive entertainment, but rather an art form to be appreciated and analyzed.  I look back in amazement at all the great movies he brought to his students.  He did have good taste in movies (and clothes).

I met Ray Oliva in 1977 as a discouraged student on academic probation after a failed semester and a half at Pomona College.  My intention was to rush through as many courses as possible to be restored to respectability, and return straightaway to Claremont.  I enrolled in a summer session of English 1A, and Ray was my teacher.  

Prior to this I'd been accustomed to easy academic achievement.  I was a tightly-wound, very strait-laced Christian, who wore high expectations like clothes.  Dismayed to have disappointed my Japanese American parents, I became burdened with the belief I'd destroyed my prospects for a successful future.  I told myself I'd gone so far off the rails I might never be found again.

The several weeks of that first summer semester passed, but I took no comfort in managing to complete Ray's class with an “A.”  I was numb and morose, dressed in black, and tried to hide behind too-long bangs which hung over my eyes.  My dad and mom worried.  As charismatic and provoking as Ray was in the classroom, I didn't expect him to be reassuring and steady in individual meetings, but he was.  With all the melodramatic flourishes of youth, I did my best to try to convince him that I'd ruined my life, but he remained unperturbed.  Very gradually, so gradually that I wasn't aware of it at the time, I began to relax, and the confidence he had in me, which went largely unspoken, became mine.  With the prescience of wisdom and maturity he understood, as I did not, that less-than-stellar performance in school had its lessons, as does any failure, and that along the way, there'd also be triumphs, and the trip would turn golden.  

And then there was the humor.  I began to catch glimpses of his impishness, and as habituated as I was to rectitude and correctness, I was initially alarmed.  But little by little, I began to take myself a bit less seriously and to reclaim a sense of fun.  Once, when I was walking along the path by his office from another class, I saw him “borrow” a campus golf cart, say to the man who was with him (I think it must've been Bill Hotchkiss), “Get in,” and chuckle as he drove off.  Another time, I was in his office, lamenting over whether I'd ever be allowed to show my face again in educated society.  He snatched a sheet of paper off his desk, scribbled on it with his pen, deftly rolled it up, then handed it to me with a “Here, Melissa.”
 
I unrolled it, and this is what it said:
10/5/77
By the powers invested in me, I hereby grant Melisa [sic] a BA Degree.
R. Oliva, Pontiff
Oxford Univ
Rocklin, CA

In the nearly thirty years since I last saw him, I've had the privilege of enjoying the mentorship of wonderful people, men and women who have gifted me through their superior grace and understanding.  But among those whom he would've said possess “basic human decency,” Ray Oliva stands distinct.  His generosity, empathy and kindness, and his investment of time and action into the concerns of his students and friends, which have been spoken of by others who knew him, are all part of this.  And it goes further.  He demonstrated, as few do, a quality of selfless other-orientation, described by one of my spiritual directors as “living toward the other,” which seeks the other person's good without thought of recompense for oneself.  Though he would eschew any attribution of such a virtue to himself, he had it.  And for that, I can say that he remains a singular influence in my life.  I'm grateful for the immense debt I owe him which I can never repay.

Ray Oliva had a gift. He shared it many times with others, and about half a century ago, he shared it with me. After suffering academic frustrations that were pretty much of my own making, I had determined that general education requirements were a waste of time. This perception led to one of my more brilliant ideas: to continue learning as far away as possible from the restrictive academy. A 1500-mile drive to a little Pacific port in Mexico seemed far enough. There I rented a mountain top, had a hut constructed, transported cases of food and my books up there by burro, arranged for weekly delivery of drinking water, and set up school. A short story would be sufficient to tell the pathetic tale of that school. It had fleas, scorpions, book-eating mice, wild dogs, and neighbors made occasionally quarrelsome by drink. Its curriculum of writers and writing made sunsets and nighttime skies no more beautiful than they hadn't been in California. Weekly hikes to the post office were sometimes rewarded by mail, but it was arriving disappointingly less and less often when one day through the counter window came a letter from Ray Oliva. He had written to take issue with me, not over my criticisms of academe, not over any of my brash displays of individuality, and not over any of my big schemes that had landed in Hindenburg fashion. No, not with any of these (he emphasized) but with my having quit. It was depressing (he continued on a second page) to see a person quit learning how to learn long before being ready to learn on his own. "So come back. … I empathize. … We can meet and commiserate. You belong here. Come back." … I did go back, but not right away. It took amoebic dysentery and losing 30 pounds to force that. But Ray's letter bought a piece of that ticket to ride not only back but also forward, after finding again what had been lost in the miasma of a couple of dozen directionless months. Apparent to me now is that Ray had a gift for recognizing people who seemed fated for doom. To these I often saw him throw a life line, sometimes more than one, such as the one thrown to a quitter who had gotten lost in a far off jungle. Ray's steady, empathic heart helped such people help themselves find balance and build abilities. Additionally, by example, or perhaps by sympathetic vibration, he passed his gift to many of these, and they in turn to others. How many have gone on to much better places than they otherwise could have claimed thanks to Ray Oliva? Tallying such a subtle influence is not possible, I expect, especially for an educator of 36 years. But all those who benefited from Ray's gift and thoughtfulness know who they are. I feel fortunate and deeply grateful to be among them.

Some former students, employees, and friends of Ray Oliva for 50 years sent flowers to his January 20 Celebration of Life ceremony, accompanied by a card. Here is what it said: 
        "When I see birches bend to left and right..., I like to think some boy's been swinging them." (Robert Frost) In fond remembrance of our friend Ray. Art Petersen, Ron Silva, Ed Hensley, Dick Hotchkiss.

When I enrolled at Sierra College in 1962, Ray Oliva was my English A teacher. I did not have a high school diploma, but Ray nurtured me through the class and gave me a C, not because I earned it, but because he thought I "May have some potential." When I heard Ray read "Birches" in English 1B, I suddenly realized what poetry could be. I memorized "Birches" then and have never forgotten it. In grad school, he offered me a job in the English lab, and later he called the dean at the University of Alaska where I soon became employed and taught for 20 years. Ray has been a  mentor and dear friend for over 40 years. I called him at Christmas and promised a New Year call, which I failed to do. I feel badly for my procrastination. I miss him and will for a long, long time. Go with peace, Ray, go with peace.

Evincing his dedication to students, whose lack of performance in the usage of English, Ray was a superhero. Dedicated to assist in building confidence in his students' desire to show improvement in their writing skills, Ray was an artisan in his classrooms, some of which because of the nature of peer evaluation, I had the assignment of making observation and making notes as he, consistent with campus policy, like with all of us had to be regularly evaluated. 
He was my colleague, but more than that when I first became a new member of the faculty, Ray was the one, who took my wife and me to different areas of the college's geographical area to help us find an inviting place to live. Sparing no time in his attention to make my beginning experience at the campus and college one that would be meaningful for me, he also gave constant encouragement to students, whose love and appreciation for his unique virtue of sensing their needs had wide and lasting praise for him. 
A tragic moment in his life, shared with those close to him, was the death of his son, David W. It was a solemn occasion as others, including my wife and me joined with him in this bereavement. Words spoken on that occasion by Ray to the circle of those gathered at the cemetery on that cold, windy, and rainy morning still echo with a profundity. “I expect when my eyes close for the final time, I will be able to view and speak with my son in those sober terms that best describe my deepest love and appreciation for him.” His announcement of this belief in an afterlife on that occasion has been the reflection of mine many times since as I have seen the departure of former students, colleagues, acquaintances, and family members. His statement has echoed the one made by Christ as recorded by St. John, “I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.” (John 11:25) It has helped secure for me a testimony of what awaits us all once we leave this mortal realm and the promise that we also will be resurrected.
I will miss Ray's chuckling disposition, his quick turning of his head as a motion to ingratiate him but also as an automatic counter action to his ability to laugh out loud and to close the statements of his wit and charm. While he blamed the gods in jest for his short height, Ray was no short figure in his stature of bigness for the welfare of students' success and an undying loyalty to the cause of securing for students, faculty, and all the maintenance of those principles that lead to a united pledge of the best America has to offer. God bless the memory of Ray and his family! May those of his family who remain forever hold him in the esteem of someone, who served his fellowman with distinction, honor, humility, and sacrifice.

For being my very special friend for many years, your humor, dedication to teaching, and a caring heart behind that Humphrey Bogart exterior.        â€œHere's looking at you,kid.â€  
Lynda

It took me a long time to call Mr. Oliva "Ray." That was because of my regard for him. It was certainly not because of his attitude. He was as down-to-earth as possible. I was his student. I was his projectionist for film classes. I worked with him and for him and Bill Hotchkiss and Elmo Daley as student assistant and eventually a friend. He was the kind of person and teacher who made the school experience seamless, and he did it effortlessly and calmly (except when he got excited). The boundaries between teacher and student, between past and present, between literature and life: he pierced them all and let them infuse each other. Thank you, Mr. Oliva. And to your friends and companions and comrades in that era, Mr. Hotchkiss and Mr. Daley. I'm sorry to all close to him.

Ray Oliva was one of several excellent professors of mine at Sierra College from 1963 to 1965. Later, from 1968 to 1973, I worked for him and Bill Hotchkiss as their English A Lab Supervisor. For me, Ray was a fine professor of English and film studies, a thoughtful and apt moral philosopher of life, an always understanding friend of students, and a cherished friend of mine. I owe him a great deal. During his long tenure at Sierra, he was a good colleague to many of its faculty, but he was particularly loyal to and worked closely with Professors Elmo Daley and Bill Hotchkiss, who were also my teachers. Association with these men (and two other teachers at another campus) led me to a long and satisfying career teaching composition and literature in Juneau, Alaska (1975-2004). I can't imagine the gift of this profession without them. Together they were constant supporters and friends to me and many many students, leading us faithfully and well in the classroom and supporting us with generous guidance thereafter, including in their homes. They sustained us over the decades by the examples they had been and by being our colleagues and friends for many years and then many decades. In a 1968 book of poems I wrote, among the dedications are these: "To ... Elmo Daley (The Finest Instructor I Have Known)...; William Hotchkiss (A Racine Druidic Poetâ--Awakener, Ezra, Friend)...; Ray Oliva (A Treacherous Leprechaun from Chicago)...." Modifying a leprechaun with the word "treacherous" is a high honor. I know Ray would agree because he told me so. Add the words "dignity" and "gravity" when called for, mixed with faithfulness, generosity, a warm smile, and often twinkling eyes, and perhaps a beginning is made at explaining why and how Ray helped and was a friend to so many, and why those who knew him to this day will miss him deeply.       Sincere condolences to Ray's family and second Daley family.

OBITUARY

Raymond D. Oliva

Lambert Funeral Home

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