One of those teachers

A small note here about my devastation today, upon hearing that one of my high school teachers is doing rather poorly. He has cancer, mostly in the lungs, which has now spread. It took a while to sink in. It was probably the shock.

I went to the guest room where I keep a box of ancient memorabilia. I found four letters from him, sent during my first years at uni, when I was far away from all that was familiar. He was that kind of teacher.

It sounds strange in these cynical, litigious days. But back then, our school was a bit like that. We had great relationships with our teachers. We respected them; they nurtured us. In senior year, we were particularly taken with this big bear of a man, new to the campus, but who very quickly became popular and much feared at the same time. As was the naming custom for male teachers, he was called Sir Ralph.

The monicker seemed to fit him better than most. He was a bit of a knight, in the way of the Old School. He would deliver lines and lines of poems that we were compelled to memorise. In fact, there is a generation of graduates from my high school who can recite Jabberywocky or Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night at the drop of a hat. Many of the notes and comments on Facebook after news of his illness attest to his passion and his influence on so many. I think there's no greater compliment for a teacher than for students to say they were changed by his teaching.