An unexpected letter arrived at my dad’s funeral – it contained one of life’s great lessons

On the morning of my father’s funeral, a handwritten letter was delivered to the church and passed to me. It was from a former school teacher who taught English and history to my sisters and me, decades ago. The letter expressed sympathy for my family’s loss and recalled my father affectionately as the intelligent, witty and articulate man that he was. The teacher told us that she had enjoyed her interactions with my parents during parent-teacher interviews.

I remember that we looked forward to hearing my father’s accounts of those interviews (not attended by students), which conveyed both our teachers’ keen interest in our progress and the mutual liking between our parents and the teachers.

The teacher who wrote that letter on the day of my father’s funeral is a legendary educator, known to generations of students for her intelligence and dry wit, her gravitas, her infallible radar for schoolgirl mischief and her capacity to accurately pinpoint its source. She strode the corridors of school, her academic cloak flapping, striking fear into the hearts of the most impervious pranksters. A barked command to “cease and desist” immediately achieved that result. She was always a step ahead of the girls, all seeing, all knowing. She had been at the school long enough to have seen it all before. Far from resenting her authority, the girls respected it and meekly fell in with her expectations.

To be taught by her and by so many others like her, for whom teaching was a passion and a vocation, was exciting. Such teachers carried us along with their enthusiasm and mastery of their subject. Sitting in their classes to learn was to enter a state of “flow”, of complete immersion. Learning was wholly engaging and enjoyable.

On Friday, World Teachers’ Day, we should recognise that school teachers are unique in their impact. They are often the first adults, after our parents, to see in us some ability, some eloquence or aptitude, that might draw us into bigger lives. Their belief in our potential ignites our self-belief. They guide us until we trust ourselves enough to fly unaided.

I asked an educator recently whether it was hard to say goodbye each year to a cohort of students. She explained that for every cohort that leaves there is a new one just beginning, so the farewells are part of a constantly renewing cycle. And, as my former teacher who wrote to me proved, the bonds are never really broken.

I remember every school teacher I have ever had, from the ones who read us novels as we sat cross-legged on the floor under windows decorated with cellophane sea creatures in primary school, to those who led discussions about Antigone, Far From the Madding Crowd, The Merchant of Venice and Pride and Prejudice.

I remember the history teacher for whom we produced Egyptian tombs and work that was stained with tea bags to make it look ancient, and the ones who explained the confluence of events that led to the Great War or who introduced us to life in Venice and Florence during the Renaissance, all delivered with colour, imagination, good humour and aplomb.

I remember the language teachers who shared stories of their visits to Europe in such vivid detail that we could imagine ourselves there, sitting in Parisian cafes once frequented by Sartre and de Beauvoir, or crossing into Soviet-occupied East Berlin after being made to leave behind at the border checkpoint magazines thought to contain dangerous Western ideas.

Teachers may sometimes feel overwhelmed by the burden of administrative duties, by challenging students, by anxious, abrupt parents, and by the usual politics of a workplace. It might, at times, seem exhausting and dispiriting to be an educator, but I hope they don’t give up because teachers really do change lives.

On this, their big day, I want to thank my former teachers for their time and patience, expertise and good humour. They may be in their 80s now, but I will always remember them in their prime, striding into the classroom, a bundle of books under an arm, turning around to the class with a beaming smile, ready to begin.

Melissa Coburn is a freelance writer.