Never before did it cross my mind what being a real teacher meant. I had spend the last almost 10 years being surrounded by people who explained things, by whom I learned a great deal, but still, to call them teachers in that sense of the word that only now, only today I understood, would be an overstatement.
Why did I understand it only today? Because it was the first time I really thought about it. I used to think that those who can't do, teach. That people went into teaching for the security of the profession. Alas, most people did. But not everyone.
As it turns out there are people who teach you things and there are people who are teachers. Both hold the title, but both have wildly different interpretations of what it means.
"Why aren't you writing this down? You're supposed to write it all down." He said in his usual way, not with reproval, but maybe mild exacerbation.
"I've already done it." She answered, smiling brightly as she stretched her back. The rest of the class continued scribbling what was on the whiteboard.
"Oh really? That fast? Maybe we should hire you for a secretary." He said as he approached and peeked at her notebook. He smiled back as they waited for the others to catch up.
As it turns out it doesn't even matter what kind of teachers they are. Middle school or college professors. If you love the subject and they love it too then you have a connection over it and that's that.
I know now that a real teacher isn't the one with the most knowledge, the most research, the most publications. A real teacher wants you to succeed, to give you everything he has and help you take it a step further. The one who's proud of your accomplishments.
"She's thinking of applying to colleges in America. I wondered what the process was & the examination."
"Don't worry, when the time comes tell her to come to me and we'll sort everything out no problem."
Teachers who meet those qualifications are too few and too precious.
"Favorite student? I don't think that's a stretch."
Oh, but he was one. He was, he was. And to think that he just taught English. And not like an English teacher at an american or british school where English means Literature, but English as a second language. He had such love for the language & he passed the love to his students and now she's writing a novel in English instead of her maternal language.
"Hi, how have you been? It's been years."
She felt awkward, a bottle of whiskey in her hands. But it was for a party, it was a gift. He wouldn't peg her for a drunk for sure?
So it was a blow, when the news of cancer reached my ears. It was by an acquaintance of an acquaintance and I had no way to know more. I hoped he'd pull through.I didn't want to think the alternative. The acquaintance wasn't even sure which son it was, him or his brother and the dark thought crossed my mind, let it not be him. But deep down I knew that it was.
"Nope, not A." He said to another student before he turned to her. "Maybe you can tell us."
"It's C." She said confidently.
"Yes it is." He smiled proudly.
The updates on his condition were few and not optimistic. He's not well, it's really bad, the cancer has spread, it's a matter of time.
"The results are in. Upper first class honors."
And then two days after my graduation I got the news. On the 31st of July, after more than two years of battling, at the age of 45, Mr. P. was finally gone. A week before, he had attended his brother's wedding - the brother I almost wished had died in his place - the one last thing he held on to this earth for.
Him and his wife were two of my favorite teachers. I had met their children but can't remember their faces. What about them? How will they face the first day of August?
And where are all the other memories, the important ones, the ones that show what a great teacher he was, why don't I remember anything, I'm sure there were thousands of moments. Why are they blended into one vague feeling? The memories that shaped this feeling, this opinion of this person, this realization of what a teacher is and how he shapes young adults, the importance of it. How do you convey the importance without the memories to corroborate it? How do you convey the feeling that you're left with that sums up years of memories and thoughts and classes and discussions?
And how can someone that you knew so little have such influence on you? Or did I forget? Did I idealize? Is this a case of what death does to the living? The idealization of the person that's gone. Did I put him on a pedestal? Did he just teach me English, end of story?
Who knows? Who cares?
Right now a young man, a young son, a young husband, a young father won't get to see the August moon. Young kids won't have a father to be proud of them as he was for the hundreds of young kids that were his students.
And that's the real shame. That's the real sorrow.
Mr. P., may the earth above you be light.
Goodbye & farewell.
