Recently, a student at the school where I taught previously was seriously injured in a Friday night football game. I never taught him, but my heart sank over the pain my beloved community, the young man, and his family must be going through. I looked him up in the yearbook, and I immediately recognized his face. Like I said, I never had the privilege of teaching this young man who is going through something immensely difficult, but over the last few days my heart has gone back to the students I did teach who faced seemingly insurmountable odds in the short time I knew them.
Like many teachers, I often keep in touch with students from previous years. But, as time goes on, sometimes that relationship fades, and I lose touch with them as they move on with their lives. While they grow and change, my image of them remains crystal clear. Each in their own unique situation as a growing and changing teenager forever stuck in my mind as they were in our short time together. Still, like many other teachers, I look back on these students as I remember them and wonder where they are now, who they have become, and hope for them nothing but the best life has to offer. In light of all those students, this letter is to them.
To my student, the one who is no longer mine:
I remember you, my student. I remember how much you hated that small, country town and wanted to move back to Detroit. Your senior year was such a hard time to move, and you didn't want to live with your mom anyways. I remember watching you find your place as the year went on, and talking about how much you wanted to get a job and move back home. We worked so hard to get you to graduation, and I was so honored to get a hug after you walked across that stage. I want to know if you made it, and if Detroit is better than here. But you are no longer mine.
I remember you, too, my student. I remember that phone call at 11:37 p.m. on a Wednesday asking if I could come pick you up because you were no longer welcome at the house where you were staying since your dad kicked you out. I remember picking you up on the curb, bringing you to my tiny apartment where my husband slept in the other room, and making you the best bed I could on our faux leather couch. I remember the countless phone calls to shelters, services, agencies, all of whom told me there's nothing they could do for a 17 year old. I remember asking them, then where does she go? I remember the drive to the children's home, where I helped you move in your room and tour the house. I remember crying so hard I had to pull over on the way home, wondering why I could not do more for you. I want to know where you have gone, and hear about the life I know you have created for yourself. But you are no longer mine.
I also remember you, my student. You, at just 11, with your crooked grin and clothes far too big coming to school every day and eating breakfast with me because you didn't eat at home. I remember the way you cradled your arm so gently that morning, and were afraid to let me touch it because of how badly it hurt. I remember the way you cried to me, trying to tell me that your dad didn't mean it, and please to not make you go as I brought the social worker in. I remember how you soared over the next few months living with your aunt, in new, clean clothes and with your homework always complete. I remember my heart falling when I heard you had chosen to go back to live with your dad, and that you had moved suddenly without warning. I want to know how you are, and if you still have that goofy nickname. But you are no longer mine.
I could never forget you, my student. You and I started off on a rocky road. At the beginning of the year I couldn't wait to get you out of my class, but by the end of the semester I couldn't imagine class without you. I remember your silly laugh that I could hear from a mile away, and how you'd cut class to come sit in my room to talk. I remember you telling me that you had enlisted in the Army, and how you always offered to buy my lunch on Friday when you went to Burger King. I want to know if you still like where you're stationed, and if you ever became the dental hygienist you said you wanted to be. But you are no longer mine.
I will never forget any of you, my students. To the ones I see at the grocery store, to the ones who are merely faces in a yearbook from a school year gone by. I would love to hear about your lives and your successes and your failures. But you are no longer mine. But, even if you are no longer mine, you should know that I will always be yours.
All of my love,
Your teacher.
