A Letter to My Teachers
In 1957, shortly after winning the Nobel Prize for Literature, Albert Camus wrote a brief yet heartfelt letter of gratitude to an elementary school teacher of his named Louis Germain. In his letter, Camus writes to his beloved mentor, “Without you, without the affectionate hand you extended to the small poor child that I was, without your teaching, and your example, none of all this would have happened.” For Camus, there was no doubt that everything he had achieved in his life had come down to the generosity and love of Mr. Germain. Though graduating from high school pales, or rather lies absolutely flaccid and limp, in comparison to winning a Nobel Prize, in the spirit of Camus’ beautiful display of love and modesty, I’d like to address a letter to every teacher that I feel has left an indelible impression on my life. While Exeter can sometimes be cruel, as a friend of mine posted as a caption under her graduation photo from last year, “[I have] climbed this mountain that we call Exeter, and the view is beautiful.” So to everyone who has helped me climb this mountain, or even pulled me up at one of the many tumultuous turns, this letter is for you: Mr. Secondi, Mr. Vorkink (get the mountain reference?), Mrs. Breen, Mme. Fair, Mr. Miller, M. Reiter, Ms. Crawford, Mr. Blair, Ms. Ramage, Mr. McMillan, and every teacher that I hold dear in my memory, thank you so very much.
Dear Teachers,
I first realized the fundamental part of my life I was going to leave behind at the beginning of a college visit. I was sitting at the Exeter train station, waiting for my train to Providence to arrive, when the tracks began rattling. At first they were muted, but then they shook violently as the train roared in. Its wheels crashed against the rails in a cacophony of dissonant sounds and biting tones that echoed in the caverns of my head. The pain I experienced for that brief moment was unusual for me.
I’ve spent most of my life in trains. As a child, I would watch the lights sweep into darkness as my train left every station, wondering if the beams I had seen cut off would follow us through the underground. The sounds of trains were ubiquitous throughout my childhood. Yet, in that moment, sitting in Exeter, watching this train, I was in agony.
When it emerged into sight, all my fluid and abstract fears of leaving everything behind and finding independence seemed to have congealed into this behemoth heading straight for me. My soul shook within its fleshy tabernacle, and the faces of the people to whom I owed my admittedly sheltered yet joyful childhood experience flashed through my mind. Besides my parents and sister, I saw Mr. Vorkink calling me Fuji, Mr. Moriarty pointing to the fleshy tabernacle passage in Moby Dick and describing it as “awesome,” Ms. Crawford and me listening to Carly Simon’s “You’re so Vain” together during recess in the third grade, and Mr. Blair and I laughing over a joke he had made during a middle school soccer practice.
They were little moments, the train tracks of my life that only I, the sole passenger of my train, could see as a straight, coherent stream of human experience. Anyone else outside this metaphysical train would’ve only seen disjointed, bent tracks. Yet as the passenger, I owe it to those who have been outside, watching and steadily guiding my train for building the trail that stretches into my future. Those were the faces I saw at the station that day.
As I describe this moment, Mrs. Breen and her English class come to mind. You always told me to watch out for being overwrought. This reflection may be an indictment of my writing skills, but it won’t be of your teaching. You taught me how to enjoy writing, how to let my thoughts and imagination come together to weave a narrative that held more truth than any factually true statement or piece. I’m clearly still learning how to write, but you have no idea how wonderful it was to come to Will House every Sunday and have you read my papers, your blunt yet maternal voice relaying essential information, not just about writing but also about looking back. I’d like to say you aren’t just a teacher of writing or reading, but a teacher of reflection, arguably the most essential human skill of all those I have learned in my brief 18 years.
There are so many more of you that come to mind as this Proustian reminiscence overwhelms me, and even as the train to Providence scheduled to arrive in August approaches, the tracks rattling and their sound amplifying as leaves go from bright green to yellow and red. I still remember you and thank you for teaching me and supplying this young boy with an endless number of memories that he will watch, read and listen to over and over again, as the train bundles on further into the fruitful dark.
I embrace you will all my heart,
Joohwan Kim ♥
In 1957, shortly after winning the Nobel Prize for Literature, Albert Camus wrote a brief yet heartfelt letter of gratitude to an elementary school teacher of his named Louis Germain. In his letter, Camus writes to his beloved mentor, “Without you, without the affectionate hand you extended to the small poor child that I was, without your teaching, and your example, none of all this would have happened.” For Camus, there was no doubt that everything he had achieved in his life had come down to the generosity and love of Mr. Germain. Though graduating from high school pales, or rather lies absolutely flaccid and limp, in comparison to winning a Nobel Prize, in the spirit of Camus’ beautiful display of love and modesty, I’d like to address a letter to every teacher that I feel has left an indelible impression on my life. While Exeter can sometimes be cruel, as a friend of mine posted as a caption under her graduation photo from last year, “[I have] climbed this mountain that we call Exeter, and the view is beautiful.” So to everyone who has helped me climb this mountain, or even pulled me up at one of the many tumultuous turns, this letter is for you: Mr. Secondi, Mr. Vorkink (get the mountain reference?), Mrs. Breen, Mme. Fair, Mr. Miller, M. Reiter, Ms. Crawford, Mr. Blair, Ms. Ramage, Mr. McMillan, and every teacher that I hold dear in my memory, thank you so very much.
Dear Teachers,
I first realized the fundamental part of my life I was going to leave behind at the beginning of a college visit. I was sitting at the Exeter train station, waiting for my train to Providence to arrive, when the tracks began rattling. At first they were muted, but then they shook violently as the train roared in. Its wheels crashed against the rails in a cacophony of dissonant sounds and biting tones that echoed in the caverns of my head. The pain I experienced for that brief moment was unusual for me.
I’ve spent most of my life in trains. As a child, I would watch the lights sweep into darkness as my train left every station, wondering if the beams I had seen cut off would follow us through the underground. The sounds of trains were ubiquitous throughout my childhood. Yet, in that moment, sitting in Exeter, watching this train, I was in agony.
When it emerged into sight, all my fluid and abstract fears of leaving everything behind and finding independence seemed to have congealed into this behemoth heading straight for me. My soul shook within its fleshy tabernacle, and the faces of the people to whom I owed my admittedly sheltered yet joyful childhood experience flashed through my mind. Besides my parents and sister, I saw Mr. Vorkink calling me Fuji, Mr. Moriarty pointing to the fleshy tabernacle passage in Moby Dick and describing it as “awesome,” Ms. Crawford and me listening to Carly Simon’s “You’re so Vain” together during recess in the third grade, and Mr. Blair and I laughing over a joke he had made during a middle school soccer practice.
They were little moments, the train tracks of my life that only I, the sole passenger of my train, could see as a straight, coherent stream of human experience. Anyone else outside this metaphysical train would’ve only seen disjointed, bent tracks. Yet as the passenger, I owe it to those who have been outside, watching and steadily guiding my train for building the trail that stretches into my future. Those were the faces I saw at the station that day.
As I describe this moment, Mrs. Breen and her English class come to mind. You always told me to watch out for being overwrought. This reflection may be an indictment of my writing skills, but it won’t be of your teaching. You taught me how to enjoy writing, how to let my thoughts and imagination come together to weave a narrative that held more truth than any factually true statement or piece. I’m clearly still learning how to write, but you have no idea how wonderful it was to come to Will House every Sunday and have you read my papers, your blunt yet maternal voice relaying essential information, not just about writing but also about looking back. I’d like to say you aren’t just a teacher of writing or reading, but a teacher of reflection, arguably the most essential human skill of all those I have learned in my brief 18 years.
There are so many more of you that come to mind as this Proustian reminiscence overwhelms me, and even as the train to Providence scheduled to arrive in August approaches, the tracks rattling and their sound amplifying as leaves go from bright green to yellow and red. I still remember you and thank you for teaching me and supplying this young boy with an endless number of memories that he will watch, read and listen to over and over again, as the train bundles on further into the fruitful dark.
I embrace you will all my heart,
Joohwan Kim