Dr Davies

Chapter 1

For Dr Sian Davies

A Teacher: The last thing you'd expect someone to write about, least of all a student. Not one of your fantasy superhero teachers, either, but a real-life, actual teacher who teaches real-life, actual lessons. Though, I suppose she could be considered a superhero in her own right. Not a caped crusader, of course, but someone with a mind so powerful that she possesses the ability to truly change the lives of others. Someone who is made a hero only by the words they speak.

Dr Davies, possibly the smartest woman on Earth. Or at least what I know of it. My own version of it.

She's a teacher in my school, one that goes unrecognised more often than not, due either to the subject she teaches or the volume at which she speaks. She's not particularly tall either, which can't help, though despite this she made herself recognised to some through her words. And from there she became more than just a teacher. She became a person, a friend maybe, and most importantly, an idol.

She's a genius. Always will be in my mind. That will never change.

I'd heard rumours around that she wasn't a particularly nice person, and people only ever used her name negatively, though I never knew firsthand as I had never been in her class. That changed recently. I don't know why but I was a little afraid to go into the room for our first lesson. Perhaps due to my discomfort around new people. I don't even remember when I first began staying after class to speak with her. It seemed to just come naturally. Before long I was spending long periods of time in there, entire breaktimes, lunchtimes and occasional after school sessions, just talking.

Let me get this out there now. I'm autistic. I struggle to socialise and bond with people because of this, but I tend to form stronger bonds with teachers than other pupils. Because of this, I don't have many friends, and so talking to teachers all lunch seems to me like a reasonable option. They're capable of making good conversation and don't take everything you say as a joke. Personally I've always felt that people don't appreciate them enough. They're the ones shaping our future, and for that we should show gratitude and respect, not interrupt them and act superior. Because we're not. If not for these teachers, we would likely never get jobs or go to university. They're taken for granted and I don't think that's fair on them. They deserve so much more than they get.

I spend a lot of time with this teacher, and despite only having known her for a short while, it feels as though I've known her years. I know a few people from her form class, and they all dislike her, though I cannot understand at all why.

I stayed behind after school one day with a friend of mine to cover a few extra poems ready for our A-Level exams. We were only supposed to stay until 4, though at 4:50, we were still sat there just talking. The topics related briefly to the poems, of course, but it got very serious very quickly when we settled on the topics of death and ageing. And then it dawned on me that one day I would age, and maybe I would pass the teacher in the street, and due to her not aging too much more in her lifetime I would recognise her, and perhaps say hello, though she may not recognise me. And thinking along these lines I also realised that one day she would die, and I would never know, for in my mind she would remain of the same age, in the same room, barely leaving. Those thoughts scared me a little. The idea that one day the world would be without her, and that when I reached her age it may finally settle in that there was a very slim chance that she was still alive, and I'd never be able to see her or visit her again. I realised that one day I may visit the school to see her only to find that she did not work there anymore and so her school email, too, would be cut, and so would come the end of the relationship between student and teacher.

I often wonder whether teachers think of their pupils when they get old. My grandmother speaks to me frequently of her school teachers and it makes me wonder if, whilst she's there talking about the teacher, the teacher remembered her late into their life. Whether they remembered all of their pupils, or maybe even just those that worked hardest. The idea of being forgotten, I think, is harder to comprehend than the idea of losing contact.

I tried not to dwell on this too much, so as not to depress myself, though leaving the classroom that day a strange series of feelings engulfed me. At first it was sadness, knowing that these heroes of mine, these teachers, would all die, but then the fear. That was the worst. The overwhelming sense of stress that got me so uptight that I swore I'd spend as much time as I could with my teachers.

And so it began. My writing about them. These words that you are reading which were written during these events where I'm still with these teachers, where they are still with me, and similarly with you.

The idea of writing of them was lingering for a while before I decided to actually do it. I realised that by putting pen to paper, I could write down exactly what I felt in the moment. Exactly how these teachers were. How they acted towards me, and I towards them. And so in your minds, they can be ageless and eternal, as they are in mine. And so I hope that they may live forever through my words. I feel it's the least that I can do for them.

From this point onwards, the words you read are written in the moment. Perhaps not published, but written in my notebook ready to be typed here for you to read. You could be reading this in 2018, or maybe 2028. That doesn't matter. For within these words the teachers remain, alive and well, and hopefully shall forever.