To help me be more critical and mindful of the bonds I’m forging with individual students, I’ve decided to write letters to some of my current and former students. This is the 12th post in the series.
Dear M,
Since the day you left my class five years ago, I knew I was going to write this letter. I’ve thought about it often. I could done it back then, but it didn’t feel right. Your impact on my teaching was immediate, and that year ended rapidly. While I knew you changed me as a teacher, I also knew that only time could show me how. I needed time to process.
In the years since, you regularly cross my mind. I’ve wondered how you’re doing and in what directions life has pulled you. You were always a thoughtful and contemplative student. You served contrarian ideas to your classmates, offering them (and me) a distinct perspective on the world. You wrote poetry and loved music. You were profoundly introspective. Intellectually, you moved with grace and fortitude.
Yet, despite all these melodic character traits I recall so effortlessly, they do not stand out to me most when I think about you. Instead, what comes over me is all that you taught me.
One of the most powerful moments of my career was meeting your mom during parent-teacher conferences. After a solid start to the year, the spring brought forth many struggles for you. We needed to find a path forward, and your mom showed up to conferences that evening with a smile.
I explained what I was seeing in the classroom. She shared more about you. You sat and listened. After several minutes, we turned to you. We wanted you to join the conversation. How were you feeling? How did you see a path forward?
I will never forget what happened next. After we turned to you, you said nothing. You stayed in a hushed stillness. You couldn’t bring yourself to join our discussion. Most teenagers would nod and smile, apologize, and offer up a synthetic promise to do better. Not you. You were pure and unapologetically yourself. It wasn’t rude or standoffish, it was contemplative. Like you wanted to offer us your input but couldn’t.
I still don’t fully understand how you felt that night at parent-teacher conferences, and probably never will. But the gravity of the moment didn’t escape me.
After several deafening moments of silence, I got up and hugged your mom. I didn’t plan to—it just happened. During our embrace, I promised her to keep an eye on you until you graduate two years later, to do my best to support you.
I checked in on you regularly for the remainder of that year. I brought you back up to speed with Algebra 2. You were an excellent listener and fast learner, so it wasn’t hard. During tutoring, we made space to chat about life. We talked about the past, present, and future. You shared your poetry. I felt like I was holding up a mirror during most of our talks.
For the remainder of your time in high school, checking up on you was a priority for me. We lost touch, however, so my check-ins were of the long-distance variety. I would ask your teachers how you were doing and randomly pull up your grades. I also made an effort to watch your body language around school. You never sought me out and we never really had another genuine, in-person conversation, but I never forgot about you. I needed to live out the promise I made to your mom. Ironically, I didn’t attend your graduation because of a family obligation. This still haunts me. It’s always felt like our story went unfinished.
We teachers are tasked with helping young people understand their curriculum, the world, and—when teaching is done well—themselves. Overwhelmed by the urgency of these mounting responsibilities, teachers work at a blinding pace. The velocity of our decision-making propels us to function at 60mph. From the moment we walk into the building, there’s always an email to send, a meeting to attend, or lesson to plan. Rarely do we have time to slow down.
Without trying, you taught me to slow down. It started with that moment with your mom at conferences when you willingly or unwillingly remained silent to force me to hit the brakes. In the months afterward, our unhurried, intentional chats urged me to delay my tendency to move on. You gave me the opportunity to appreciate the depth that comes with teaching instead of getting lost in its overwhelming breadth.
This is how, though I was only getting to know you better as a student and young person that year, our talks helped me understand all my students in the ways that matter most. You prepared me to truly see the young people in front of me.
In the 14 years before teaching you, I would look at my class and see students. In the five years since, I’ve seen sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren. They’re all there now, every day, in plain sight, indirectly asking for guidance, support, and love. They need a teacher, yes, but they also need an adult to understand them, offer suggestions, hold up a mirror, and be their biggest fan. I am glad to be in a position to do these things in large part because of you.
Maybe one day, our paths will cross again. But if they don’t, and we never talk or meet again, that’s okay. I’m proud to have known you and taught you. We served a purpose in each other’s lives for just a brief time, but my current and future students have a more empathetic, discerning, and caring teacher because of it. I’m forever grateful to you.
Please give your mom a hug for me.
Sincerely,
Mr. P
P.S. The photo of your class hangs in my classroom. I look at it sometimes and am reminded of you.
lazy 0ch0 