Listen, kid, if you’re anything like me (NEWSFLASH: You’re a lot like me. Sorry.), the next 12 years of years of your life will be long, challenging, boring and painful sometimes, embarrassing and emotional sometimes, and a probably more than a little bit awkward. But there will be laughter in there (some of it at my expense—I forgive you) and also lots of love and fun.
You’ll be older and wiser at the end of this. Smarter, too, if you continue to love to learn and continue to be so good at it. And if your dad and I hold up our end, making you do your homework, traveling with you to cool places, taking you to nerdy museums, and quizzing you on your addition and multiplication tables just like your abuelo did with me.
And if you have good teachers.
That’s the good news. On this long journey to your high school diploma and what comes after, we will have help. I don’t know what your teachers will be like, but here’s what I wish for you:
I wish for you a teacher who recognizes when you’re not good at something, but doesn’t treat you differently or make you feel stupid because of it. Like Mrs. Williams, my first teacher after I moved to the United States, who never let on to me or anyone that she thought I spoke poor English even though I did.
I wish for you a teacher who goes above and beyond, so you can participate in something you love. Like Mr. McGregor, my elementary school art teacher, who taught an evening sculpting class I took and shared his dinner with me on the nights that mom had to work late and couldn’t pick me up between the time after-school care ended and the class began. (It was always a tuna sandwich. I friggin’ love tuna.)
I wish for you a teacher who trusts you and gives you extra responsibilities because he knows you can handle them. Like Mr. Ackerman, who signed me up to be on the popcorn staff in 6th grade even though this meant missing one period of social studies every week. He said he picked me because he knew I could do the job and keep up with the class. I managed it, if only because I wanted to prove him right.
I wish for you a teacher who teaches you that life is hard and sometimes you can’t have everything you want all at the same time. Like Mr. Thornton, who was teaching while he put himself through law school. He was also diabetic, and the stress of everything was affecting his health, so he gave up the thing he loved the most, his students, because it was what had to be done. When he told us he’d be quitting, half-way through the year, I put my head down so others wouldn’t see that I was crying. Until I heard a sob, and then another, and then another. All of us cried. But we also learned something: life is hard and sometimes you can’t have everything you want all at the same time.
And I wish for you a teacher who points you in the direction of the rest of your life. Like Mr. Powell, who was my English teacher in 10th and 12th grades. My high school years were an embarrassment of riches in the good teachers department, but in his class, what I learned the most about was myself.
Sofi, I don’t know what you will remember of the coming year or the ones that will follow. (Well, you’ll remember your first day, if nothing else, because I’ll be taking a million photos.)
You’re not going to recognize the teachers who are going to change your life when you meet them. You’re probably not going to realize that’s what they’re doing when you’re sitting in their classrooms. Maybe, you’ll understand that’s what they’ve done for you as you leave them behind. It’s possible that you’ll read this when you’re 18 and think, “Jesus, mom, were you really this fucking sappy?”
On this night, though, before it all begins for you, all I only know is what my teachers did for me. And, damn it, kid, I really, really hope you are this lucky.
Love, your mother