I moved a lot as a kid. Moving can make a child resentful or resilient, and I have witnessed this effect in my own children. Unfortunately, the journey can be bumpy.

When my mother died, my sister gave me a packet of stuff my mother had saved. Grieving, I just put it on a shelf in my closet. This past Christmas, I showed my daughter some memorabilia from our family when I came across the large folded portfolio. I opened it to find old report cards and other reminders from my childhood. As I read comments from my teachers, I was shocked and hurt by the horrible comments written about me. I suddenly realized I was a lousy student and just a terrible child! One large paper was my high school drafting project. It was ungraded but had the following note on the back:

Good Detail. Really though, shouldn’t you have more completed? What you have is worthy of [a] good grade. Your motivation is pulling you down. See me.

I laughed and brushed it off. But as the evening wound down, I wandered back in time to my senior year of high school. I hated it. And I had good reason to. After living in large cities most of my life, moving to a small borough in rural Pennsylvania was a huge struggle for me, culturally and socially. I just didn’t connect with my peers.

I loved drafting and architectural drawing, having completed two years of drafting before transferring to the new school. I even considered it one of my primary career choices. But the teacher, Mark, did not care for me. He mocked me. He was sarcastic. He got along great with other students but treated me with such disdain. But I wanted to like him. He was really cool, and everyone loved him.

Mark certainly recognized that I was unmotivated, but he never believed in me. He never had a conversation with me about anything important. Sadly, I lost interest in drafting. But to be fair, I was a hard kid to like. I was mouthy and obnoxious, and I liked to pick fights.

As much as I hated attending Mark’s class, I deeply admired my English teacher, John. In hindsight, John seemed to recognize that I had a way with words and encouraged it. He challenged me to read difficult books and write about my experiences. I don’t know if it was our weekly journals or some other tip, but one day, John held me after a class and asked me about my observations coming from a large city to this small town. He took an interest in my past and how it impacted my current world. And then he encouraged me to write about it.

Yesterday, I went for a run when Spotify played a random song from my younger years. It has a few lines that actually left me a little emotional:

Caught in an endless time
Waiting for a sign
To show you where to go.
Lost in a silent stare
Looking anywhere
For answers you don’t know.
You going through this stage
It’s a restless age
Young and insecure.
On the wire
Balancing your dreams
Hoping ends will meet their means
But you feel alone
Uninspired
Oh, does it help you to
Know that I believe in you?

Every American can name at least one teacher from their childhood that had a life-altering impact on them. Those teachers believed in us, inspiring us to dream more, believe more, do more, and become more. And to those teachers – John – yes, it did help to know that you believed in me! Nearly a half-century later, I write this, having earned a doctoral degree and, ironically, working in the world of education policy to help shape the future of education. It is not to my credit–my intellect, personality, or appearance–that I have accomplished anything. If I have achieved anything in life, it is ONLY because I was inspired to do so.

Every child in the classroom today is just trying to find their way. And every teacher is a part of their story. I was a principal for 20 years. I made a lot of DUMB MISTAKES! But I hope we were able to inspire more students to greatness than we have spurred resentment.