Philip Morton Shafer

To create is to let a piece of your soul take shape in the world: A memorandum of the life of Dr. Philip M. Shafer 

May 11, 1972 – July 14, 2025 

Philip Morton Shafer—Philip used to say that if the good die young, he would live to be 150. He was always ready and willing to turn to a little self-deprecating humor if it meant he made someone laugh. The reality, however, is that he was a good man; indeed, in many ways, he was a great man. He burned bright, filling the lives of those around him with all the light he had to give. 

Born the eldest of six children, Philip took his role as “big brother” seriously—part sage, part stand-up comic, and part emergency contact. He was the anchor of his family, the one everyone called when they needed help, a laugh, or both. He was a fierce protector, a wise guide, and—annoyingly—right more often than should be humanly possible. He wanted to celebrate each success, empathize with each loss, and pave a way forward for his siblings, doing all that he could to support, uplift, and encourage.

 Philip earned his doctorate in children’s literature and linguistics from MTSU—a feat that took many years of hard work and dedication—and secured a tenured position with TSU’s English Department where he spent years shaping minds, encouraging critical thinking, forming lasting relationships, and somehow making even theoretical syntax sound thrilling. Teaching wasn’t just a profession for Philip; it was a mindset, a way of life. He cared deeply for his students, dedicating a great deal of time and energy to their success, and wanting nothing more than to help each one find, develop and grow confident in their own voice. Sharing knowledge was what he had to give, and he gave freely and joyfully.

 He was a voracious reader and loved learning almost as much as he loved not going to the beach. (Sand? Sun? Sharks? Absolutely not.) Growing up and living in Tennessee did nothing to alleviate his fear of sharks, deep water, and submarines. One of his favorite pastimes, however? Watching movies about sharks, deep water, and submarines. There was nothing more entertaining than watching him shout and holler at the screen—and he may have been extra dramatic just to ensure an extra laugh or two.

 He was married to his childhood sweetheart, Tracie, who has known him since 2nd grade and been by his side since high school—proof that sometimes, you really do meet your soulmate over juice boxes and spelling tests. Their love was the kind that novels try to describe, and movies usually get wrong. Through laughter, pain, deep conversations, and many shared Netflix accounts, they built a life of extraordinary depth that saw them through some challenging and difficult times. Tracie was his caregiver, confidant, and co-conspirator in everything that mattered. 

But the most important role to Philip was being a dad. Brie (19) and Ella (16) were not just his children— they were his pride, his purpose, his proof that brilliance could be inherited. He raised two wildly gifted, compassionate young people who not only carry on his genes but also his insatiable curiosity, dry humor, quick wit, creative talents, and love for stories, people, and the quiet beauty in odd corners of life. 

Philip was a man of many talents and passions: a musician, a composer, an artist, a film analyst who could write an essay on Jaws or The Lion King without batting an eye (and he did). He could talk as easily, thoroughly, and insightfully about Spiderman or Star Wars as he could about Edgar Allen Poe or Shakespeare. He played basketball (and would definitely tell you about how he used to dunk the ball), volleyball, softball, and golf—and he managed to be good at all of them, because of course he was. If there was something he wanted to learn or a skill he wanted to develop, he would do what needed to be done to accomplish it, and then, teach it to others. 

He was funny, verbose, ridiculously smart, and famously bad at impressions (though he would argue otherwise). He could lose hours in bookstores, get lost in conversations with five-year-olds about Pokemon or Nerf swords, and held a deep belief that everyone—yes, everyone—had something worth saying. And when they said it, he listened. 

He battled chronic pain with vulnerability, sarcasm, and brutal honesty. He never let the pain stop him from playing video games for hours with Ella or having long conversations with Brie. Those who knew him best knew how much he carried—always with Tracie by his side, the love of his life, the hand he held through everything. 

His body simply couldn’t keep up with his mind.

 We grieve his passing, yes—but more than that, we celebrate the universe of love, laughter, wisdom, and weird movie trivia he built and leaves behind. He spent a life creating, always creating. Philip Shafer may not have made it to 6’2” (reaching just 6’1.5”—a fact he lamented often), but in every way that matters, he stood taller than most.

 He lives on in his wife Tracie, his children Brie and Ella, his siblings, nieces and nephews and extended family who love him deeply, his students who adore him, friends who respect him, and the thousands of lives he touched just by being exactly who he was.

 In lieu of flowers, the family asks that you read a book (or donate one to your public library**), start a thoughtful conversation, attempt a very bad impression, write a poem, or watch a shark movie in his honor. Nothing was more meaningful to him than those opportunities to experience and celebrate life with others. **Email Tracie at tracieshafer@bellsouth.net and she will mail you a memorial sticker to go on the inside of the book before donating. 

Wherever you are Philip, make that slam dunk, and know that your legacy is your lasting masterpiece. We love you more than we could ever say. We are lost without you but found because of you.