I am a college sophomore. I am back home for winter break so I decide to visit my old high school to catch up with some of my former teachers. There was one teacher in particular who had made an extremely significant mark on my life when I was younger and I am excited to see her. She’s one of those really energetic teachers who jumps on desks and stuff. She’s teaching a class when I show up so I wait for the bell to ring.

As soon as she sees me in the doorway, she actually SCREAMS my last name and sprints across the room to give me a hug. Her next English class starts to filter in, and to my surprise, she skips the lesson and asks me to talk to them about college instead. We have a long and fun lesson where I assure them of the merits of learning MLA and proper writing skills, which pleases the teacher immensely.

After the class we have a long private discussion about life and politics and such, and she gives me some much-needed advice. I was a bit of a rebel in high school and didn’t get very good grades, but now I’m about to graduate college having been on the dean’s list almost every semester and already working in my intended field. It all goes to show what an impact some teachers can have on your life long after you leave their class.

(I am in my last year of school, which usually results in a relaxed teaching atmosphere because everyone who is still there really wants to learn. For the last two years of school students can choose most of their courses; however, maths is mandatory for everyone. I end up in one of those mandatory classes. Needless to say, none of the students are too interested in the subject, just trying to pass. That year we are assigned a new teacher who is pretty young and obviously excited to start his first real teaching job. On the first day of class…)

Teacher: *after his introduction, beaming at the class* “So that’s enough about myself. Now, are you excited to study some maths? Tackle those solutions!”

(Embarrassed silence follows his words. Finally, a classmate speaks up slowly:)

Classmate: “Mr. [Teacher], do you realize what sort of course this is?”

Teacher: “Sure? Year 13, Basic Maths?”

Classmate: “And… sorry to kill your buzz, but none of us chose to be here. Basically, we sort of hate maths, but we have to endure it to get our certificates.” *several nods and murmurs of agreement from the rest of the class*

Teacher: *looks taken aback and sort of crestfallen* “But… I mean… You’re all… I mean, really? But maths is fun!”

(In the end, we feel so sorry for him and his crushed hope that we come to an agreement: We’ll do the work willingly, no debating and moaning, as long as he accepts that this is certainly not ‘fun’ for us. In exchange he actually sets aside one hour per week for us to all play games together instead of doing coursework, complete with impromptu theatre or the occasional show organized by a student who was an amateur magician. It improves the mood so much that everyone puts in the work in their free time, and I actually pass the course with better grades than in the years before. At the end of the year, after grades are given and coursework completed, we have a couple lessons left with nothing to do, so we usually end up just chatting. On the last day ever, the teacher comes in and stands up proudly:)

Teacher: “Here’s to the end of my first year as a teacher. I’m happy to say you guys taught me more than I ever expected, and I want to thank you all for putting up with me and my apparently abnormal love for maths. May you all prosper in your non-scientific endeavours.”

(We all clapped and laughed. Afterwards, though, he added:)

Teacher: “Besides, I’m so f****** happy they assigned me the advanced class for next year. I’ll be with my kind again at last.”

(I work in a surf-shop. I’m very bored as I have been assigned fitting room duty and it is a slow day. A middle-aged man approaches me with little girl flip-flops.)

Man: “Can I try these in the change room.”

(Before I can reply he bursts out laughing.)

Man: “I’m sorry you should’ve seen your face!”

Me: “What?”

Man: “You looked bored so I thought I’d come over here and do that.”

Me: “Oh… thank you!”

(His thoughtfulness made me smile the rest of the day.)

In the late 90s, a couple from Iran moves in next door to my parents. They’re very friendly people, although a bit shy and the wife initially didn’t speak much English. While they both wear traditional Western clothes, they are practicing Muslims. Most of the neighborhood is white and at least nominally Christian, and none of the other neighbors are Middle Eastern or Muslim. But no one cares and the couple settles right in, and the other families in the neighborhood are happy to throw a baby shower for them when the wife is pregnant. She is so touched she cries happy tears, explaining that she felt so accepted and loved.

In the days following September 11, 2001, several of the neighbors were standing out on the sidewalk talking, trying to process the terror attacks. My dad notices that he hasn’t seen the next-door neighbors. He walks to their door and knocks. The husband answers. (The husband is about five-foot-three and the wife even smaller. My dad is six-foot-two; only one other man in the neighborhood is taller.) The neighbor looks a little nervous.

Dad greets the neighbor and explains that a bunch of people just felt like talking, and he and his wife were welcome to join if they want. The neighbor declines, and Dad reassures him that no one is mad at him or his wife or thought they are terrorists or sympathizers. He says, “If you don’t blame me for Timothy McVeigh, I won’t blame you for the terrorists.” The neighbor still stays home, but is relieved.

They’re still my parents’ next-door neighbors, and still very nice people. I have kids myself now, and the neighbors have given them carte blanche to pick any of the flowers in their front yard (and the flowers are incredible; the most gorgeous roses I’ve ever seen) and often give them Christmas presents. I’m going to visit my parents tomorrow, and since Ramadan is over, I have a loaf of (Halal-friendly) bread baking in the oven to bring the neighbors.

(On my day off, I decide to head to the local pot dispensary to take advantage of their Fourth of July sale. When I pull into their parking lot, I see a group of four people — two men, a woman, and a child — standing around a car with the hood up. Note: it’s hovering around 100 degrees, a rarity in Oregon.)

Me: “Y’all need a jump?”

Older Man: “Nah, the car just overheated. We’re waiting for it to cool down a bit so we can open the radiator cap.”

Me: “Y’all got water?”

Older Man: “Yeah, we have some to put in there.”

Me: “Y’all got water for yourselves? It’s really hot out here.”

Woman: “No, we don’t.”

Me: “I always keep a six pack of bottled water in my trunk, for times like this.”

(I pop my trunk while the younger man, the woman, and the kid follow me over. The older man stays by their car. I pull three water bottles out of the pack, one for each of the three who seemed interested in the offer. They thank me, and I head into the dispensary.)

Woman: *overheard as I walk away* “See, Dad? I told you. Stoners are the nicest people!”

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