its freedom. The only reason I cried was when I

received the Memorial scholarship in honor of Cameron

Wills. Cameron was the seventh grade student whose

house I daily visited so that he could continue

working on his school work even when he could no

longer go to class. I visited him the day he died. I

read to him stories of missionaries in the Amazon rain

forests of South America during the era of Jim

Elliott. He would ask me for a drink of water, and I

would hold the glass gently next to his gray lips,

face, and eyes. I screamed when his parents called my

mom later that night. I spoke at his memorial

service. I shared the verse from 2 Corinthians 12:

"My grace is sufficient for you...for my power is made

perfect in weakness."

Guy Doud thanked his 6th grade teacher for being

nice to him.

I recently turned 25. I had a message in my voice

mail from a young man named Howard. Coincedentally,

Howard was also in the seventh grade when I met him.

He was one of my first students. Howard spoke about

me in his graduation speech. He wanted to thank me

for "being so understanding."

One day, Howard came to class telling the other

students about how his mom had hit him the night

before for "not being diligent enough." I knew

Howard's parents. I also knew Howard's schedule; and

was beginning to understand the Chinese way with their

children. It began with a desire for success, and

ended with pressure. I will share with you a bit of

Howard's schedule. Though he grew up speaking Chinese

and attending Chinese school, he was now undergoing

the exhausting task of learning in an American school.

He still, naturally, had to keep up with his Chinese

studies, and take extra English classes on the side.

Howard was in the National Taipei children's choir,

played guitar, piano, and violin. He was a black belt

in Taekwondo. He had a private English tutor. He

stayed up until at least midnight every night doing

homework and had to be to school by 7:30 am the next

morning.

Because I knew Howard. I came over to him, and I

grabbed his hand. I kissed my hand which was holding

his and said "I'm sorry Howard." His eyes watered up,

and thanked me.

Guy Doud understood Howard. He understood me. He

knew what it was to remember and incorporate and give

to his students.

I mentioned earlier that I hated high school. It is

because it was a place where I walked into a

classroom, and the girl who had been my best friend

mumbled under her breath that I was a fucking bitch.

I know those words sit ugly on this paper. They sat

even uglier on my heart. I cried every night for six

months because I literally did not have a single

friend.

Guy Doud talked about the teachers who did not get

it. He talked about the teacehrs who never saw him.

I knew those teachers too. There were instances when

teachers would refer this girl to the principal

because she was growing out of hand. There she was

told, "Amanda. Tracey is no match for your quick wit,

and sharp tongue." Just once I wanted a teacher to

stand up to her for me. But apparently she not only

had the social power with my peers, but my teachers as

well. Either that, or I was not worth standing up

for.

I resonated with Guy Doud and his discussion of

taking to heart those things which are told to us as a

young child. I hurt with him when he remembered that

the messages of being bad at making his art project

meant that he was bad. Or that his inability to play

sports meant that he was simply unable. Worthless.

The job of a teacher, according to Guy Doud, is to

guard and nurture the inner lives of the students with

which you have been entrusted. It is to make sure

that your classroom is the place in which the message

they receive is one of growth, openness, and value.

My junior year of high school, there came a frumpy

middle-aged woman who was way too loud for our small

town. But she connected with me. She gave me a

leading role in our school's first ever play. She

made me editor of the yearbook. She gave me the book

Night, by Elie Weisel, and took me to visit a

Holocaust survivor. She told me Amanda was awful to

me. She grew indignant when I was mistreated. I am

very grateful, to this day, for Virginia Mabry.

And I am grateful for Mr. Doud. And his

articulation of something so important, and so

incredibly universal to what it is to be a student; to

be human. I know there are others like him. And when

I still see my students' names in my email inbox; I am

grateful to be counted among his company.