Reposted from The Boston Globe Opinion's page:
Two weeks ago my 2nd grade teacher quietly passed
away. From what I’ve since learned he
had taken a personal health leave from my elementary school where he has
inspired and nurtured first and second graders for the last thirty years.
He had long battled depression, and last week chose to end
that battle. But as a student of his
long ago, I would never have guessed he was unhappy. He always smiled in the classroom.
As students, specifically seven-year-olds, our teachers
exist for us within the confines of the classroom. They spring into being with cheery smiles and
a bounce in their step as we stow lunch boxes and head to morning meeting. They retreat again at 3 o’clock with the
lines of carpooling parents and yellow school buses.
For me, my teacher Jim was always summed up simply – a
sketch by a seven-year-old mind. He was
tall but not imposing and grew a bushy beard.
He always smiled. He favored flannel and wore Birkenstocks no
matter the weather.
I have recently discovered these contradictions of the
classroom as I have returned to school, this time as a teacher myself. While students might fail to conceive of
teachers outside the classroom, I now know for us teachers – our students are
never far from our thoughts. My students
do not cease to exist with the school bell, rather they continue to run wild in
my thoughts late into the night as I agonize over the girl who struggles with a
math concept or the boy who can’t sit still for five minutes straight.
In the classroom we as teachers are the sounding boards and
documentarians for our students’ lives – we hear about the birthday party
plans, the antics of a younger sibling and last night’s fried chicken. We hang up our lives, our worries and our
concerns and cloak ourselves with those of our students.
At seven, I was just the same. On a recent foray to the basement I unearthed
a cardboard box filled with relics of 2nd grade. Jim had us write every day. I have uncovered fifteen manila journals
filled with elaborate and atrociously spelled stories detailing trips to
relatives, to friends’ houses, describing home cooked meals and depicting
colorful baseball caps we once bought on vacation.
We all were eager to share our everydays – just as my
students are now.
And Jim always listened – listened with such intensity that
each of us came away feeling that our stories and our lives were remarkable.
When my youngest brother was born in November, I brought him in at three weeks
old for show and tell. When Passover
came in April, Jim was invited to our Seder.
Teaching made me appreciate the duality of a teacher’s
life. My own teacher’s death last week
made me realize how I saw my own teachers the same way.
Looking back I am ashamed to realize that I knew very little
about Jim.
The only thing I do know definitively was that Jim loved
nearby Punkatasset Pond. Year after
year, every first and second grade class spent an afternoon at the pond, poking
at the water’s edge and exploring the surrounding trails. I remember building
tree forts out of sticks and catching tadpoles in mesh nets.
Even years later when I returned to the school to visit my
favorite teachers, my conversations with Jim continued to center around me –
what classes I was taking, what art or what writing I was engaged in. For me Jim, as well as all of my teachers,
continued to exist within the confines of school.
My second grade teacher was not a famous person; his
obituary when it runs will be modest.
But I think it is worth pausing to consider the devotion of great
teachers. Almost everyone has had at
least one – men and women who listened to you, supported you and made you feel
special. Like great parents, great teachers have a
herculean ability to maintain two completely separate lives – successfully
hiding personal struggles in order to show only warmth and support for the
students they teach. Theirs is a selfless
commitment to the lives of others.
Jim was one such teacher – always there to listen, with
complete and absolute focus, to the adventures of a seven-year old, always
there with a smile, and always wearing Birkenstocks – no matter the weather.
