Tony Westen didn’t set out to become a teacher. Raised in Macomb as one of seven siblings, he always admired his father—a teacher, athletic director, and eventually a college football coach. But early on, Tony needed to find his own voice, his own path. So after college, he left Macomb for Chicago, joined a band, played gigs, lived fast, and leaned into the possibility that he might never return.

Eventually, he transitioned into the business world, where he discovered something unexpected: what he loved most wasn’t the sales or the metrics—it was the mentoring, the training, the human development.

“I called Steve Horrell, our athletic director,” he says. “He’s a family friend. I told him I wasn’t happy. He said, ‘Well of course not. You’re supposed to be back here teaching.’”

That call would change everything.

Tony came home, landed a job as a teaching assistant at Project Insight, Macomb’s alternative high school, and began the journey of flipping his degree into teacher certification. That was in 2002. He’s been in education ever since—teaching physical education, coaching wrestling and football, and now, anchoring sixth-grade social studies at Macomb Middle School.

The irony isn’t lost on him. “When I was younger,” he says, “I always thought I’d leave. I wanted to live in a big city. And I did. But it turns out, Macomb is where I belong.”

That return wasn’t just a logistical shift—it was an emotional one. He and his wife, who isn’t from Macomb, moved back after a stint in Springfield. One day, she walked into the kitchen and said, “I’m not happy here. What would you say if we moved back to Macomb?”

Tony was stunned—and grateful. “She’s brilliant, driven, and somehow still puts up with me,” he laughs. “She found a job with better pay and less stress in a town where she knew nobody. And now, she might be more connected in the community than I am.”

Their daughter is a Macomb student now—a true second-generation Bomber. “She’s only ever known Macomb Schools,” he says. “And that matters. There’s something real here.”

That sense of rootedness runs deep. Tony teaches the same grade he once inhabited, in a district where his own former teachers and coaches are now colleagues. He’s watched as students return as adults—some still wearing the same family name on a sports jersey, some walking their own kids into the same front office doors.

“You’re starting to see those last names again,” he says. “It used to be that graduates would move away—Chicago, St. Louis, L.A. But now, more are coming back. They want to raise families here.”

Tony believes schools are at the center of it all.

“You want people to stay? Make sure your schools are strong. Make sure they feel connected. And make sure they know their community sees them—not just as test scores, but as people.”

His own teaching style is built on empathy, consistency, and connection. “There are days when you lecture, and days when you do projects. Not every day can be fun. But the relationships—that’s where the real work happens.”

Sometimes, those relationships go beyond the classroom. As a coach, Tony witnessed the transformation that happens in the locker room, in post-game moments, in the exhaustion and triumph of physical effort.

“Kids choose to be there,” he says of sports. “That’s an advantage. They’ve already bought in. But in both settings—on the mat or in the classroom—it’s the same: a coach is a teacher. A teacher is a coach. The details are different, but the heart of it is the same.”

He talks often about those who shaped him: his father, former educators like Rooney Dively, Coach Protsman, and Patrick Stedman—the band director in Beardstown who transformed a floundering program into something powerful through discipline, love, and vision.

“You don’t just learn from people in your field,” Tony says. “Good educators borrow from everywhere—music, coaching, science, art. You pay attention to how people lead.”

Now, his students watch him lead. His daughter watches. And somewhere, his father—whose home was once filled with 30 former players in a single afternoon just to say goodbye—is smiling.

That kind of legacy doesn’t shout. It walks the halls quietly. It shows up every day. It stays.