Affirmation

An unfamiliar street name in Santa Clara, California, glimpsed on the return address label as she signed for a certified letter, set off a rapid-fire mental slideshow of potential senders. She knew of three or four long-ago classmates and neighbors who had migrated. Or maybe her sister had moved again. But then, why would that merit certified mail instead of a phone call or e-mail? Bad news or good? Could it be (hope, hope, hope) some kind of happy surprise never imagined?

Back in her living room, anticipation and choices—a fresh cup of coffee and comfy chair before opening, or a quick look-see to learn the nature of the correspondence before settling in? Impatience won the day, and she stood in filtered sunlight next to a plant that looked in need of water to tear open the envelope and scan the contents. Delight—a happy surprise indeed—and then disbelief; this definitely called for coffee and more time to take it all in. She set the packet on the seat of her chair and headed for the kitchen. First, water the plant and get rid of that distraction. And then, with coffee mug in hand, time to re-read, mull, and savor.

She carefully went over the letter again:

Dear Mrs. Zimmerman,

I’m pretty sure you’ll remember me, because we had quite a few good conversations when I was in your Makers class, and I always knew real conversation was important to you, whether or not I would have been able to articulate that at the time. Junior high is a whole world away from where I am now, which is a better place than I ever even dreamed of. I guess the best description of what I do is tech design and development, though there are a lot of layers to it. I’m working for a good company, not one of the biggest ones, small but with greater opportunities for someone like me. My parents moved to Nevada a couple of years ago, so I’m glad to have them closer these days.

To explain the enclosed $20,000 check, I got an end-of-year bonus bigger than what I used to hope for as an annual salary. Same thing last year, and I sent money to Carla Marlatt (used to be Carla Sims,also in our Makers class) to help her start her own pre-school day care business. She lives in Nebraska now, married but doesn’t have children of her own yet. Her mom was a teacher, and she’s the one that clued me in that those little black notebooks you gave to every one of your students were paid for out of your own pocket. Before that, I had no idea that school districts don’t buy extras like that. Somehow, after I found out, I took our “black book assignment” more seriously. (Still not sure what that says about my value system.) Anyway, I was wondering who I could share with this year and remembered that Carla’s mom (still teaching) told her that even though you’re retired now, you’re still all over town doing volunteer work and serving on boards, etc. I thought about all the ways I have used the things you taught us to help me excel at my work, every bit as much as I use what I learned in school subjects, high school and college, because you taught us how to activate our learning, to really apply it. I still have my black book (so does Carla) and I have paged through it several times when I was blocked on some problem. Usually I just relax and read until I get to something that gives me a nudge toward a starting point, and then I’m up and running again. Funny how that works, when none of that stuff has any obvious relationship to my current life or work.

So anyway, this is my way of recognizing and expressing my appreciation for all that you taught us and maybe more important, HOW you taught us, by leading us to organize (all those lists) and analyze and question, to problem-solve on our own terms. It really was a good blueprint for making choices and decisions. The work you did and apparently are still doing is a gift to humanity, and I’m sure Carla and I aren’t the only ones who remember it and deep-down believe in it. Please use this money however you please, wherever you please, and have as much fun spending it as I am giving it.

Your (forever) student,

Alan Forrester

Exhaling pent-up breath, she settled deeper into the chair to think. She remembered both students well; in fact, she probably had a more detailed recall of that particular group than any other, because it was the class that launched her Makers program, and she had to prove its value to school administrators. That first year was one of the most exciting of her life, when she finally was able to put into action some ideas that had filled her mind almost since she began teaching. Numerous mistakes as she went along, of course, but revelation with each one, and inspiration weaving in and out of every day’s journey.

Oh, and the “black book assignment,” one of those ideas that came to her fully formed while she was gearing up to start the program. The only daily task actually required of the students for their notebooks was to write down one statement made by any one classmate during that day’s session, something that caught their attention or imagination or curiosity. Many additional options—more than one statement, more than one classmate, written reflections, sketches, and so on—with utilization fluctuating according to the unruly moods and circumstances of often-bewildered junior high students. She had learned much about the souls of those kids as she studied their entries each night, and much about their needs as they tried to take in the lessons that would move them forward in their lives. Their insights, or lack thereof, surprised her regularly in ways both positive and negative, and her inventory of teaching methods had expanded (and improved, she hoped) as a result.

Smiling, she thought back to some of the unintentionally comical notations that had stuck in her mind, as well as some that had been deeply gratifying to her as a teacher. As always, she wondered about the students she hadn’t been able to keep track of as the years passed and hoped hard that they had entered adulthood stronger than they had been when she knew them.

Carrying the letter, she walked to the kitchen, left her empty cup on the counter, and headed for the stairs. Her corner desk was tucked into a room now used for sleep-over guests, with bookshelves on both surrounding side walls creating a compact room-within-a-room where she worked for a few hours each day. This was her place to think and plan, to scan news outlets and social media for current happenings, to carry out the ongoing communication required by highly valued friendships and associations.

Her students hadn’t been aware that she logged impressions, observations, quotes, and questions in her own black notebook, though the assignment she gave herself was structured a little differently, requiring one note of some sort for every student, every day. These provided a quick-reference guide as she planned subsequent lessons and “spontaneous” conversations with the kids. She pulled out the book for 2007-08 and began reading through, pausing at some points to remember and cherish and wonder. Twenty-one students that year. Alan and Carla were very much in evidence, but there were others who had triggered notations consuming an equal amount of space—amazing how small she could write when necessary. More than an hour had passed by the time she looked at the clock. She felt the weight of her endeavor in heart, mind, and soul; and she marveled at the audacity of her ambition. How could she have presumed that she possessed the ability to do all that she thought she was doing at the time? And yet she was everlastingly grateful that she had experienced the opportunity to try, and that she actually had used that opportunity.

Placing the notebook back in line with those documenting 2008 through 2017, she realized that a cascade of ideas had been playing through her head as she read and ruminated, dreams old and new made feasible by this unexpected cash infusion. Okay, she thought, and swiveled to her keyboard. I’ll make a list of every possibility I can think of.