Reading, Writing, Remembering

To my ex-students: Of course I remember you — The Boston Globe

It happened again last week, this time in a voice mail. As I listened, I quickly connected a face to the name. She left her number and a few details. The final sentence was the same as always: “Do you remember me?”

Usually, the messages come on social media. These are accompanied by a picture, and I scan the adult, searching for a hint of the kid I once knew. Always, my former students write or say some variant of “I hope you remember me.”

I receive a few of these messages a year, and my answer is always the same. “Of course I do,” I respond. “How could I forget you?” For many, I can remember exactly where they sat and who sat next to them. I can picture their faces, maybe conjure their voices. I can think of both first and last names and remember their personalities. Others are wisps; maybe I recall the approximate year, maybe the grade I was teaching, maybe the school.

When I started teaching, I was only 22, and I had no idea what a challenge it would be. As a kid, I had played school constantly. I always wanted to be the teacher, forcing my siblings into makeshift desks assembled from meant-for-other-things furniture, while I wrote on a chalkboard I had received as a gift.

Being in charge of a real classroom is no game. Kids won’t be forced into anything — not a seat, not an expectation, not a routine. Every student required something slightly different…