I Can't Remember Your Name

A eulogy for a teacher whose name I've lost

"Who would have thought forever could be severed by the sharp knife of a short life"

The Band Perry - If I Die Young

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I remember one day walking into school. I hadn’t been at the school long. I’d changed schools for 6th form, and this school went from year 7 to 13 (AS/A2 being years 12/13). And I walk into the common room, and it’s silent. Which, if you know the British school system, is odd. A few people are crying, which actually wasn’t that odd. Normally, someone was crying in my cohort, myself included, actually.

It turned out one of the people in my year had died. The majority of people in my year had grown up with this person. The few of us who'd only joined for sixth form were either perched slightly awkwardly, looking around, or part of the upset as they had connected.

My experience with them was not particularly pleasant. I found them abrasive and beyond pleasantries. I didn’t put myself within their orbit if possible. We didn’t have any classes together, so it was really just a friend of a friend circle. Overlapping at house parties and in the common room

But yeah, it sucked. There’s a certain pang that comes with knowing with finality you will not see someone ever again. Beyond that. Being honest. I felt lost; it was odd. It was my first real contact with death as a young adult. I’d been very fortunate up until that point.

So the whole school had an assembly the next day, which was nice, actually; they really did a good job all things considered. Two things stayed with me.

I remember getting angry. They had this book that you could sign and write something in. Which is a lovely idea. I didn’t sign it. I didn’t know them well enough, and it felt wrong? I probably could have written something. But what made me angry was the countless random students who, I am sure, had no idea who they were but had written all these platitudes and comments that were bullshit. Yes. Random Year 7 person. X said and did the thing you said they did to you personally, and you’ve never forgotten it.

The second came a day or so later. I was in my home classroom during registration after lunch. We were meant to have two register periods, and in year 12, we were meant to turn up to both, but the school and teachers knew better than to try to enforce it with 6th form, especially since everyone lived locally, and if they had nothing last period, they were not staying on school property. I don’t think I had a class, but I hadn’t gone home yet; I’d spent lunch working on coursework. But I was alone with our home class teacher. She was new as well, and taught maths for GCSE and below. She'd been given an A-level assignment and, having no authority, didn't actually care once she realised this herd of cats had zero interest in being herded. I liked her. Always had her hair in a little lazy half twist and a resting bitch face. Never saw her smile. She was young. I think it was her second school as a teacher.

But we were sitting in the room alone. I was staring at a textbook I’d stopped reading, thinking I just spaced out, angsting to myself. She asked me if I was okay. She gave me probably the only lesson she ever taught me directly over two years: that honesty will not get punished. (I am still struggling to metabolise it a decade+ later, so yay me and trust issues) I said no. Kept staring. It was only when she'd pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down that I looked up. I remember snippets of the conversation, but essentially, I came clean about my concern that I hadn't broken down in tears over X.

“It’s sad. It’s terrible but…I don’t feel anything?”

“Did you know them?”

“Not really.”

Verbatim

The bell rang at some point, but she was on a free period as well. She said that it was okay not to feel it as much as the others. Now. Just to remind you, I was 17, still finding my feet in a new school, realising that academia and me was not really a good mix and trying to apply myself as best as I could. And I’d just not been punished for being honest, but also told it was okay. See the above note about my cohort being teary. I’d like to think I was composed. But a pack of tissues was procured for me. Maths up to you.

There’s so much discourse about teachers who stay with you and mould and shape you. And it’s all fantastic and fond, and I loved her rah rah rah rah rah.

I can’t even remember her name. Didn’t even think of her until I sat down after listening to The Band Perry - If I Die Young on repeat in the bath (Had a bit of a sing-along. I can totally do sad girl American country.) and got so into my own head I had to write something. (working on it, I can sleep after this. Brain is sleepy :3) But it’s the closest I have to one of those fashionable formative experiences. All my other mentor figures came in my professional career, and I have explored most of them. A few more need to be unpacked and laid bare. But those were all in the development of skill. Not me.

I wish I could remember your name. You probably don’t remember me either. But you helped. I liked your hair. Was a mousey brown, natural, I think. I didn’t stare at your roots (that would be weird), and your side eye was on point. You used it so very well against such disdain for untested authority. I wish I could fully embrace your lesson. Truly. But life got in the way. Thank you for holding my cracks and trying to keep them from growing.

Photo by SIMON LEE on Unsplash