can be explained in part by an email I just received. The student sending it just graduated from an elite law school. When he left our high school in 2004 it was to major in music. He had been a sometimes indifferent student in high school. I taught him twice, as a freshman and again as an upper classman (I think his senior year).
He was cleaning out his parents house in Maryland, came across a notebook he had kept in that freshman government class and sat down and wrote me.
I am going to edit what he sent me to protect his privacy, offering only a few key parts.
Henry Adams once wrote that A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops. That can be for ill or for good. This letter reminds me of that fact.
Please keep reading
Mr. Bernstein,
I'm not sure whether you would remember me or not, but my name is XXXX YYYYY and I was a student of yours (now nearly decade ago!) at Roosevelt. I vividly remember taking both your LSN Government class as a freshman and your AP US Government class as a junior.
You might be wondering why I'm writing you this email. I'm actually (briefly) back at my parents' house in Maryland at the moment, packing up some things for what I suspect will be my permanent relocation across the country to California. As I was cleaning out my room this morning I found a trove of old high school notes in the back of my closet. I paused to flip through them briefly before tossing them all into the trash. But when I came to a beat up red spiral-bound notebook filled with hastily scribbled "warm-ups" from your class, I stopped. . . . .
And so I'm writing this email to belatedly thank you for being a part of my good fortune. I was a thoroughly mediocre student while I was at Roosevelt. I graduated with a sub-3.0 GPA, and I was accepted to famous university based almost entirely on the strength of my musical ability. When I decided not to pursue music beyond college, one of the things that haunted me was a lingering fear that I wouldn't be able to hack it in a more traditionally "academic" setting - that I wouldn't be able to force myself to care, and that I wouldn't be able to successfully channel the passion that had allowed me to succeed in music into another field.
And so, at the risk of making this sound like a trite admissions essay, one of the reasons that I chose law school was because I already knew that I had a sincere pre-existing interest in governance, in jurisprudence, in the American political system writ large and in the U.S. Constitution specifically. At the time that I was making the decision I think I attributed my interest to the smattering of political science classes that I had taken while at famous university. To be honest I doubt that I really thought about the origins much at all.
But looking through that notebook, I realized that I can trace that interest back to the classes that I took with you. You were always a larger than life figure in the classroom, and as a result you managed to capture and hold my interest at a time when few academic things did. I remember being impressed by your obvious command of the subject that you taught, even though I think I was always aware that we diverged politically (I would now classify myself as a socially liberal/economically conservative libertarian; of course as a high school student I was far too immature to have developed any sort of internally coherent philosophy.) But that never bothered me - you were the rare teacher who was both open about your own opinions and willing to engage with your students about theirs on an respectful playing field. I still remember writing my substantial paper for your LSN government class defending Lochner (without a doubt my first experience attempting to parse through a Supreme Court decision, and an appropriately dismal one at that) - and I also remember that you were as quick to praise the attempt as you were to make it clear that you completely disagreed with my conclusion.
But above all, you were good at what you did and it was always clear to me that you really cared about doing your job well - and without meaning to, perhaps even in spite of my intentions not to, on some level I responded to that commitment and internalized my own response. You made me interested in what you had to say about the subject, and as a result I became interested in what I thought as well.
I'm sure that I wasn't always the best student in your class (either on paper or in practice), and I certainly didn't appreciate how lucky I was to have had you as my government/history teacher for a long time after I left - let alone while I was some kid sitting in your lectures. But your impact stuck with me in subtle ways; every so often throughout the years I've found myself googling "teacherken" (I'm not sure how I remembered you telling us that was the name of your blog) to check and see what recent links you've compiled or to read a few of the entries that you've posted. Any mention of Quakers or Haverford or Mount Athos brought you to mind. And I remember having a flashback to the first day of 9th grade when I walked into my 1L Criminal Law class and the teacher smiled and opened the first lecture by asking us: "What is 'Justice'?" I smiled as I saw some of my classmates who weren't fortunate enough to have taken your LSN class self-confidently take the bait and fall into the familiar trap that I had fallen into years before.
So I'm writing this email to thank you. I don't know if I would have done all of the things that I've done if I had never taken a class with you, but I can say with certainty that on some level your teaching has stuck with me and had an impact on my life. Having just completed what will probably be the last academic class I'll ever take a month ago, I can say that the world could use more teachers like you.
Thank you, Mr. Bernstein. I hope that this email finds all well and I hope that you continue to have an impact on students at Roosevelt for many years to come.
I remember the young man quite well. I might note that the first instructional lesson my government students have is to attempt to answer the question "what is justice" and while they are doing it I step out of the room, put on a black robe and a white whig, come back into the room announcing my presence as a judge and take them off to the races. In that first class usually someone will say justice is punishing those who break the law. I may ask a white student if Mies Giep and her family should have been executed for hiding Otto Frank and his family including his daughter Anne, or a black students if Harriet Tubman should have gotten life imprisonment for smuggling many slaves North from Dorchester County Maryland.
In that first class we explore Plato, Hobbes, Locke, the Preamble and the Declaration. I am establishing two main themes - the question of what is justice, and the nature of the social contract. The two are ultimately closely related, and they are the themes around which I organize my course.
The young man experienced that lesson twice, as a freshman and again as a junior.
He had reasons for his inconsistencies in high school.
As teachers we can never be sure of the impact we are having.
I am at a point where I may teach only one more year. It is becoming ever more difficult. I am in the midst of various battles, including my involvement with the executive committee of the Save Our Schools March and National Call to Action in late July. I am currently sitting in my living room with piles of folders from my AP Gov class strewn around me as I begin to rethink and replan the course.
I could be down. In fact, I probably was down until I read this email.
Teaching is not about test scores. Yes, we must know our content areas. Yes, we must be able to communicate in in a way that makes sense to the young people in our care. But to do that effectively we must care about them, we must take the time to know them, and even then we cannot be certain about the impact of the lessons perhaps until many years later.
Teaching is about relationships.
Teaching is most of all about and focused upon the students.
it is nice when we hear the positive things that come from our teaching.
As my wife notes, this letter is more valuable to me than all the certificates I received for my Agnes Meyer Outstanding Teacher award from the Washington Post.
I thought I'd share.
Thanks for reading.
Peace.