“They may forget what you said but they will not forget how you made them feel.” —Carl Buechner

One of my students simply typed “thank you” fifty times down a sheet of paper. Another wrote about the mystic connection she felt with me. One file contains notes, some formal, some scribbled, all read carefully and all effective in pushing back at the despair I so often felt teaching high-school English to these teenagers. Despair because it was so hard, so time consuming reading and commenting on their essays. The only way to teach writing is to read everything and give rapid, encouraging, concrete feedback. Teaching literature required constant reading, annotating, and discussing ideas. After I had corrected sixty Macbeth essays my then six-year-old son threw the papers in a mud puddle. “ Returning them I told the class why their papers were so beaten up and I heard one student whisper to another, “She has a kid?”

Despair also for the state of the world, the pain they were experiencing because of social media, bullying, rifts with parents and just being alive. However, I loved it and I loved them. They whined and complained and cheated and turned work in late, argued about their grades and made fun of me but they were all precious, the gangbangers, the war refugees, the spoiled and the homeless. Bad boys kept transferring into my classes because they were sarcastic and needy and once they settled some of my best students. I had one at home so little could affect my ego. It had been decimated by my own son’s deep love and cruelty.

A good teacher is like a candle — it consumes itself to light the way for others. —Mustafa Kemal Atatürk

I taught for an entire semester at a very, very rich and famous high school that had graduated many movie stars and other important people. I was something between a sub and a ‘real’ teacher. Soon the shy, the outcast, the weird and the unfriended were eating their lunches in my classroom. Still, teaching AP and Honors many of my students were popular, brilliant, athletic, and socially gifted. When I left all the classes put together a binder with each student writing a letter to me, sometimes in the voice of a character from A Tale of Two Cities or The Catcher in the Rye, describing how much they would miss me and what they had learned. This was unexpected and so moving I cried in my car because most of us have no idea what we may have achieved and only recall the disaster classes, the angry parents, the eye rolls, and the sleepers.

Recently an ex-student referenced me on his Twitter account. It was flattering but alarming to hear I had advised a then Economics major to transfer to English. Why would anyone take the advice of a person who was currently living part-time in a Rinzai Zen Buddhist Monastery, who earned so little money her accountant informed her she couldn’t afford to pay him and who had chosen the life of a writer? He called me ‘cool.’ Incredible praise for those of us who carry our lives around in a tote bag.

Finally, I wish the two teachers I had, one in high school and one in college who made me feel smart and valuable and talented were still alive. I wish my father, brilliant professor, harsh and generous critic of my work, so funny and so sharp was still alive. If a teacher made a difference in your life, no matter how long ago, let them know.

—Molly Moynahan, author and writing coach

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