Dear Mr. Miller and Zach Brooks

Mr. Miller

As happens more frequently than I’d like to admit, I was shopping at H-E-B recently in my workout clothes (which may or may not result in actually working out) when I ran into someone of utmost importance. Purse in hand, I glanced at the plants in the entryway of the store, checking for sales, when I saw a familiar figure out of the corner of my right eye.

It was Mr. Miller, my beloved 8th grade Science teacher, at Cummings Middle School. I had run into him a few times over the years, but on this day, he looked quite different. “Mr. Miller!” I waved. “Oh, hey…” he responded, smiling with a hoarse voice, and giving me a side squeeze. He felt quite thin under my arm, and somewhat frail. I glanced up at him and saw he wore a bandana over his head, covered with a cap, and he was missing his typically thick eyebrows.

We began conversing like two old friends. I asked how he was, and he honestly and graciously told me the truth: he was not well. He had just finished about 6 rounds of chemotherapy after being diagnosed with throat cancer. “Oh, no” I lamented,”I’m so sorry.” He shared that his prognosis was good, but the treatment had been harsh. As he continued talking, I listened through a sort of haze. I had a hard time accepting that he, Andy Miller, a lifelong Yoga practitioner and eater of all good things, had cancer. “I know,” he said, “I tried doing things right and still…”

At the end of our brief visit, I told him I would keep him in my prayers, a sincere gesture that seemed so small when spoken out loud. He thanked me and we went our separate ways.

I spent the next several minutes in the grocery store trying not to run into him again. My out-of-body experience clouded my pressing need to purchase food and other essentials. I read through my list and placed items in my cart with a heavy heart. It was not until I drove away from H-E-B that I allowed myself to cry.

Visions of 8th grade rushed my memory. My classmates and I sometimes ate lunch in Mr. Miller’s classroom, because that was the cool thing to do, while munching on Flamin’ Hots, licking the red powder off our fingers. I hated science before being his student and was not especially fond of it afterward. He made lessons relevant, told great stories, was funny and treated us all with respect.

Once my middle school career came to an end, we loosely kept in contact over the years, in large part because my younger sister, Erin, was good friends with his daughter, Rossina. We occasionally visited them in their home, and together with his lovely wife, it was a perpetually peaceful environment.

Zach Brooks

I fell in love with teaching by accident and fell even harder when I met my first group of 5th-grade students in August of 2005. 23-years young, fresh and a possessor of a heal the world mentality, I was ready to inspire my children to dream and chase down their biggest goals.

What I did not anticipate was how much they would inspire me. Originally trained not to show emotion as an educator, there were quite a few times I shed tears that academic year: tears of joy, sadness, frustration, and confusion. Some I couldn’t help but share in front of my pupils, too.

One such student was Zachary Brooks. A handsome fellow, with dark hair, light skin and hazel eyes, he walked with a bounce in his step, had a slightly raspy voice, and was quite the charmer. He also possessed an old soul, which I appreciated (takes one to know one), and we talked all things Rolling Stones, books, life and even The Wiggles (who remembers the “Fruit Salad” song?).

That class was nothing short of magical. I managed to choke out a graduation talk, in between sobbing, on the last day of school. Single and away from family in the state of Iowa, those children were mine. The thought of them moving on to another school was painful. Because of the stage of life I was in, I gave them everything: all my time, love, attention, affection and energy.

The Reunion

My family and I decided recently it was time to introduce our children to Iowa. Thus, in February, we all boarded a plane and enjoyed a week in the Midwest. Prior to our departure, I posted an all-call on Facebook, inviting friends and former students in the Des Moines area to drop by a small reception a dear friend was hosting for us. Zach was one of the first to respond. “Boom!” he wrote, “count me in.”

He showed up with a cake, some of the best beer in Iowa, a book and a card. I wouldn’t open the card for a couple of days. After tucking the children in for the evening, I sat on the edge of an antique bed in the master bedroom of our AirBnB, and read the following:

Mrs. GH,

First things first, I’m not sure my handwriting has improved much since the 5th grade. Heads up!

When I think back to past educators, mentors and individuals who helped influence my life, very very few had your level of impact.

It’s hard to believe that I can recall so many memories from when I was ten (that was 13 years ago, by the way), but over these past few days, I’ve been able to identify a number of conversations and events from that school year that I’ll never forget.

Whether it was invading Southridge Movie Theater for an early viewing of The Chronicles of Narnia, learning what the word “zany” meant, attempting to bust into a pack of fruit snacks during the ITBS, or the incredible amount of LOVE you had for each and every one of us; all of those thoughts flood my memory with ease.

What an honor it was to be part of your very first class EVER! Thank you for going above and beyond. You’re the G.O.A.T. (Greatest of All Time)! Your favorite “Rolling Stoner,” -Zachary Brooks

Bottom line: what we do matters. Few other careers have the potential to inspire whole generations like we do. These two stories I shared belong to a collection engrained in my memory and heart (and sometimes, my computer). I know I’m not alone. So teachers, thank you. Keep fighting the good fight, and please, enjoy summer break!