33 Teacher

I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go;

I will counsel you with my eye upon you.

—Psalm 32:8, ESV

I was a naive, lonely kid when I entered high school. I’d play a game when I stepped into the building each morning. I’d say to myself, “Let’s see how many people will say hello to me in the hallway today.” And 100 percent of the time the answer was zero, until I stepped into Mr. Emra’s English class.

Bruce Emra was a new teacher. He laughed easily. I was impressed that he had a master’s degree from New York University (and a beautiful Mercury Cougar), and he liked books, The New Yorker magazine, author John Updike, foreign movies, poetry, art, history, the Mets—and he seemed to like me.

I do not remember how the subject came up, but we were discussing in class the habits of the raccoon when I lamely said to Mr. Emra at the end of the period that I had pictures of raccoons that I had taken myself. He immediately asked if I would bring them in to show him. That night I rummaged through my disorganized desk drawer and pulled out my raccoon pictures.

I was delighted whenever I heard the metal garbage can lid fall to the ground outside the dining room window. I’d run to the window and see the tail and backside of a fat raccoon that had found, once again, something good for dinner deep inside the tall garbage can. I’d run to the basement window that was even with the garbage can, and there I’d watch the raccoon inches away.

One day I opened the basement window before the raccoon arrived to see if I could get a better look, and sure enough the raccoon didn’t seem to care that I stood watching him as he happily knocked over the can and munched on cantaloupe rinds and stale bread. Then I had an idea. If I was so close to the raccoon, perhaps I could take pictures. That night I carried my Kodak Brownie camera and a flash attachment, and when the raccoon appeared, I snapped picture after picture. The raccoon passively looked at me, munched on his dinner, and, if I didn’t know better, I’d say he smiled at me a few times in a pose of contentment and vanity.

When I brought these pictures to Mr. Emra, he looked at each one as if they were precious photographs from National Geographic. He laughed at the pictures, asked how I was able to get such close-up shots, and complimented me on my enthusiasm for these clever, agile creatures.

That year Mr. Emra had us sit in a circle as we discussed novels and short stories. We delighted in being in his class, where we got to know one another and learned to like one another as we worked on group projects. We spoke openly about ourselves and about our connections to the books we read. We wrote essays, plays, poems, and short stories, which meant that Mr. Emra spent countless hours at home reading our work and making personal comments on each of our papers: words of encouragement, suggestions for improvement, and kind praise.

It was in this class that Mr. Emra introduced me to the poetry of Dylan Thomas, particularly “Fern Hill” and read aloud Jean Shepherd’s story “Wanda Hickey’s Night of Golden Memories,” and Updike’s “A&P.” In this class a teacher taught me that I was good, smart, charming, cheeky, and alive. I have carried that newly discovered confidence with me ever since.

Because of Mr. Emra’s class, I walked through the high school halls with many people saying hello to me on a daily basis, and I have since walked through life with a sense of purpose, confidence, and joy about living, thanks to Mr. Emra and his interest in a goofy kid who liked raccoons.

“Hello!”

Blessed are the teachers, for they have given us light.

Blessed are the teachers, for they have shown the way.