My Seventh Grade TeacherThe seventh grade was a tough year. Realizations were occurring, my grades were slipping, I had my first relationship, which was painful, and my friends were bickering constantly. So to help cope with the grades slipping, my mom paid my seventh grade teacher to tutor me. She helped me, gave me food, made me feel at home. She was my second grandmother. Even into eighth grade, she still tutored me. She helped me transition into my current style of writing. She helped in so many categories, I could write a book about her.
Then one month, she was in and out of the hospital. Soon enough, she was in the hospital for weeks. She had a stroke. And collapsed lung. And pneumonia. We knew she wasn't going to make it, despite the false hopes the principal advocated.
Then she died. Just like that.
I'll never forget how my eighth grade teacher told the class the last words she heard from her. They were...
"When I can't sleep at night, I don't count sheep. I count my students. Because I remember each and every one of their angelic faces."
She is, hands down, the most influential non-family member of my life.