Some Worrying, "Thank Yous" from Students

I received 25 notes from students thanking me for being their teacher. Last week was "American Educator Week." As part of the festivities, students selected any teacher who had a positive impact on their life from any point in their K-12 experience and wrote a letter thanking them for their work. The school then mailed or distributed these letters to the teacher to whom they were addressed.

Some students said they really had no teacher who positively effected them and wrote letters expressing that unfortunate sentiment. Others had to work really hard to come up with a name. Sadly, one student's comment that I was "the only teacher who has impacted [her] in a positive way" was echoed in various ways in many of the 25 letters I received from a mix of this year's and last year's students.

Obviously, I am pleased that at least some of my students think I did something good for them, but I'm a little bummed that there weren't any phrases like, "I've had a lot of good teachers, but I wanted to thank you especially." Here is a sampling of the norm:

• "You showed that you cared . . . I don't think any other teacher would have done that."
• "Your teaching skills, in my book, are the very best that any teacher has offered me."
• "I never thought I would like an English class until I came here."
• "All my English teachers have been messed up but you." (This from the writer of the "Spangmanglish" post letter)
• "Honestly, you're the only teacher that [sic] listened to me. When I talk to you, it helps, even over the little things."
• "I just wanted to say thank you for making 4th period the only thing to look forward to."
• "When I was given the assignment to write a letter to a teacher I appreciated, the only person I could think of was you."

On the positive side, I also got back some validation that high expectations pay off:

• "Although the work you gave us was overwhelming, I appreciate that you did it. I honestly believe my writing skill have gotten better since I passed your class."
• "You inspired me to like English and to do my best. You taught me the skills I needed to succeed in my writing."
• "Thank you for teaching me how to look deeper into all sorts of writing and how to order my thoughts."
• "Thank you for teaching me new things and for being so strict about turning things in."
• "You helped me realize that high school isn't a joke."

Lastly, I am posting an unsolicited note I received from a student. This was not part of the AEW assignment, she told me she "just wanted to thank me." (click on the letter to enlarge it)

(A final note: I wrote individualized letters back to all the students who wrote me and thanked them for making my day a little brighter. Oh, and I didn't comment on their grammar, punctuation, or spelling.)

A Round for the House

This entry has nothing at all to do with the American education system. I apologize if you came here looking for a classroom war story or a bit of fiscal whinging.

Today I must pass along some sad news.

According to an item on the Hook Norton Brewery website, the old Free House at the top of the village is now under the care of Mel and Sarah Phipps. I imagine they are quite capable and friendly landlords and I will certainly pay them a visit when I next find my way along the M40.

However, the ascension of the Phipps means, for me and probably many others, the end of an age. It is yet another symbol for all our journeys: places and people static and certain in photographs while reality recedes rapidly in the rear view mirror, no longer familiar.

I have an old and dented Ind Coope beer tray on the wall over my wet bar. Deep into Joey's bachelor party I used it to bash Dave over the head as he alternately bashed me with his tray in steady time with a bar full of fellow revelers singing and clapping, "Oh Lordy, pick a bale of cotton . . ." crescendoing faster and faster until the pans banged almost in unison and their rims bent on our senseless skulls.

Margaret put on a wonderful meal for my 21st birthday and from then until I moved away my pot, a gift from Joey and Frances, hung over The Red's bar on a hook graciously awarded by Colin. It now hangs sadly over our breakfast table, perhaps thinking of its own days, full to overflowing with 64 pence pints of Hooky's Best Bitter.

If I look carefully in my attic boxes, I might find some cocklebur or bit of barley from my first tramp across the fields from RAF Upper Heyford to the village on the hill, guided by the square Norman steeple incongruently crowned with a red light to warn off low-flying F-111s as they slid downward toward the airfield. Perhaps it came from a place I kayaked a year later, flooded knee-deep with water from the heavy rains and overflowing Cherwell. Perhaps the little seed or weed is there now, as I write, stuck at the bottom of a box or clinging to a forgotten pant leg, knowing it will be needed to stir some distant memory: to bring to life the smell of wildflowers, or wet earth, or burning corn stubble.

Only phantoms now: ghosts of winter fires in the corner hearth, of summer flowers and warm stones out front, of laughing friends, of children grown, of lovers found and lovers lost. The sad remnants of a coming of age, one among billions, flickering now to one day sputter and give out, remembered by no one but burning to the last. I know when I return to The Red I will be given the warm welcome of stranger in a country pub, a stranger whose heart is unknown but stays hidden under the brass and hardwood, close to the hearth, behind the bay window, and pressed against the bar.

Cheers, mate.