At the end of the year, Carter had to change schools. He lacked ‘seniority’ and was to be replaced by a smug obtuse matron who went on to become an equally obtuse vice-principal. Christine was mortified. She could not accept that he was too young to teach her any longer, or remain in the same building as her. ’But you’re my Teacher!’ she said, tears in her eyes. It made no difference. She and her mentor went their separate ways, and as is the case in such matters, eventually drifted apart. The last contact Carter had with the family came a few years later in the form of a formal invitation, delivered to his new school after much re-addressing, to Christine’s wedding. He and his wife, then the busy parents of young sons, would be on holiday at that time, but they made an effort to deliver a wedding present to the Trang home, where the smiling grandmother accepted it half-comprehendingly from behind the battered screen door of a unit in an east-end public housing project.
On his last day as an employee of the public school board, Carter was sorting through notes, papers and voluminous files from his thirty-three year career now drawing to a gentle close. The recycling bin was full to overflowing with discarded lesson plans and class handouts, forgotten mark summaries, and unclaimed compositions. Desks were piled at the back of the class in readiness for end-of-year cleaning, students had left for the summer, and only the custodian’s radio playing distantly down a darkened corridor was there to keep him company, when he came across an effusive note from Christine about his comments on an assignment of hers. He could not recall the topic, nor what he had said about it. His face softened as he recalled her. With a quotation from Francois Villon that would have delighted her, he asked out loud of the echoing classroom, ‘Ou sont les neiges d’antan?’ Where, indeed, was she now? Had the family’s prospects improved? Had they remained in Canada? Was Christine a mother of teenagers herself, and if so, where? He read her girlish script, its errors intact, and was moved:
‘You’ve made me the happiest girl in the whole school. At least once in my life I’d made something that I could be proud of. I’m going to hang it on the wall in front of my bed so that everytime when I feel depressed, I could have a look at it and remember that life is not so awful. Thank you for bringing me back my happiness. I was wrong to think that life always brings sad things and that life is always hard. Thank you.’
Anonymous2 years ago
This is a moving story. Teaching is such a noble profession. I wish I could teach longer. And that I Thank you for sharing this. I also wonder what happened to the Trang sisters. Are they happy? Do they remember the days they learned ESL with you? Do they think about their teacher from time to time?
Peter Scotchmer2 years ago
As is the case with so many former students of ours, we inevitably lose touch with them, and they with us.. We ourselves get older, retire, move, or die. They age, marry, move, or who knows? The past recedes into the distance. Perhaps they lose their idealism or become disenchanted with their earlier selves. Perhaps they are not given to reflection. Yes, it is a pity I do not know anything else about the sisters, and about so many of those I continue to remember with affection. I am sure it is true for you, too…. / P.S.