The school year has ended; teachers are recovering and so are students.
I remember I couldn’t wait for vacation. Yet years later, I regret not reaching out to some teachers during summer break to let them know how much I appreciated them. Most have passed away, and I lost track of many. So now I write a letter to a teacher and their memory.
Why letters? Because they last. They can be read over and over. They can be passed around and shared. Most importantly, perhaps a son or daughter, or even a grandchild will read them years later and gain a glimpse into the life and work of a family member.
When collected, the letters become the book of a teacher’s life, a tribute to their work as an educator. A collection of letters honors the individual and the legacy of having a teacher in the family.
Never miss a local story.
Write a letter to teachers who made a difference. In some cases, you made an academic breakthrough, other times you learned a life lesson, and occasionally you simply needed someone who listened. A teacher may have disciplined and pushed you at a time that you did not appreciate it. You may have been treated with respect a student only vaguely senses. It may have been a relationship you benefited from over the years or a single exchange that, only as an adult, you now understood the significance.
Sadly, my letters could be too late. My teachers may be gone, but hopefully a family member can read the letters and gain insight into their character. But for many teachers, it’s not too late; you can write that letter now.
Here are some of my letters. Writing them makes me aware of how the best teachers go above and beyond.
Dear Mrs. Miles (kindergarten teacher),
You understood I had a speech problem. (I once believed the letters “R” and “W” sounded the same and could be used interchangeably.) You knew in my home, Japanese was spoken, and in the simple thinking of a child, I invented my own alphabet. You kept me after school and drilled me with exercises and speech lessons. Thanks for taking time; it took only a few weeks to straighten me out. But most remarkably, I now realize you also kept Jackie, another student, after school, too, so I wouldn’t feel singled out and different. Together we all practiced and learned much.
Dear Mrs. Hiebert (elementary school music teacher),
You were a trained classical violinist, played with the Philharmonic and still came out to Del Rey to teach us farm kids music. We had an orchestra of violins, wood winds and my French horn. How did you tolerate the squeaky sounds, the lack of a beat, the horrid tones and notes we invented? Forget the sharps and flats, we had trouble just starting together with the wave of your baton. Yet you were patient, rarely yelled, and made us believe we really could perform. Only a true teacher could listen to us and hear music.
Dear Mr. Bosserman (high school electronics teacher),
I never thought of myself as a vocational ed student. When I walked to your electronics classroom, past the auto shop and wood shop, next to the art classes, little did I realize I’d spend four years in what they now call career and technical education. Practical, valuable and real. Wouldn’t trade it for any AP or Honors class. You gave me the confidence to fix things.
Dear Mr. Barrett (high school social studies teacher),
I was a restless senior in high school and you fed my quest to be different. You gave me books to read and opened a new world beyond our Valley. You encouraged me to explore and see the world as an adult by treating me as an adult.
To teachers everywhere, students remember your work, even if tucked away in letters to be written.
David Mas Masumoto is an organic farmer near Fresno and award-winning author of books, including “Epitaph for a Peach.” Contact him at firstname.lastname@example.org.