It was just another group photo posted on Facebook. The group was so large and the figures so small that individuals were almost unrecognizable to anyone who had not been present when it was taken. But it got my attention and produced a flood of memories. It was a photo of the students in a school where I had taught junior high history.
Suddenly, I felt old. I envisioned these people as I had last known them. Skinny, short, and gangly boys who had not yet finished their early-teen growth spurts or recognized the need for good grooming and hygiene. Taller, more physically developed girls who were awakening to boys as more than mere rude, prank-prone, and inconsiderate male classmates and were themselves becoming young ladies obsessed with their outward appearance. All good kids. Some good scholars with great promise.
Yet, as I read the responses to my query, I slowly realized that they were now adults with children of their own–children who are older than their parents were when I taught them.
But as I learned of what my former students had become, I realized that I had been privileged to play a small part in their transformation from junior high kids into mature adults. Several of them related things they remembered from my classes. A few even admitted that I had helped cultivate in them an appreciation–and, in some cases, even a love–for history. And that made all of my efforts and sacrifices worthwhile.
Jesse Stuart, one of my favorite authors, said it so well: “I am firm in my belief that a teacher lives on and on through his students. Good teaching is forever and the teacher is immortal.”
Thank you, all my former students at UBCS, for the fond memories and the reminder that a teacher’s work is never in vain.