“A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops.” —Henry Adams

I was Mother Nature in kindergarten and a year later, in Ireland, hit across the knuckles with a steel edge ruler because I could not read. In fifth grade I had a teacher, Mrs. Sadler, who trusted me as a bullied child to survive without her intervention. It was a risky decision. My nemesis had intimidated and bribed the rest of the class and even paid a small boy a pound to hit me in the mouth. But Mrs. Sadler saw my potential as a swimmer, an embroiderer, a writer, and made me feel incredibly brave. Sixth grade was awful for any number of reasons, seventh grade chaotic and fun with the entire middle school housed in the National Guard Armory as our building wasn’t ready. The teachers were young, and we gradually became a feral group who terrified the high school students when we were transferred to the top floor when the Guard needed their place back.

Eighth grade was horrible as was ninth. In tenth grade I was sent to the private school both my sisters attended for their final years. It was a hard adjustment as I viewed teachers as enemies and no longer loved school as I had as a child. In fact, I had hitchhiked daily into the town instead of getting on a school bus and hid in the library. Now I had teachers who read my papers and wrote comments and stopped me before I could slink away to say something encouraging or helpful or to ask me to get tutoring which was always the math teacher who had the patience of a saint, but she was dealing with someone close to illiterate in math. College was like heaven.

And then I became a teacher. A classroom full of Haitian immigrants struggling to pass the English test necessary to stay in the city college. A group of creative writers demanding to understand how to write a novel; notes that said thank you, snarky teacher evaluations or inappropriately complimentary observations about my legs, students that said I saved their lives, gang members and wealthy children full of fear and depression. A student deep on the spectrum stood on my desk and recited a soliloquy from Hamlet with perfect cadence. Kids stood outside of my classroom whispering and I overheard, “She can help you. She’s nice.”

I have returned to a teaching job, well, not exactly a teaching job, providing two hours of instruction to adolescents committed to a health facility for suicidal ideation or depression or cutting and 90 minutes of a study hall for the day patients in the afternoon. Will I make a difference? They seem to like me, but they come and go, their possessions packed in brown paper bags, heads often bowed. I try to make our time in the morning meaningful with writing and sharing and basically being nice because they need to know someone likes them and wants them to find success.

—Molly Moynahan, author and writing coach

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