One of of my deepest fears is not so much sharks, vengeful spirits, or getting stalked in an alley and then getting slashed into pieces, although that freaks me out, too. What stops me dead in my tracks is the crippling thought of returning to school and having none of my teachers remember me. You could say the thought of being forgotten, unmemorable, and somewhat dispensable and lost amidst the countless thousands of students that filter through classrooms hurdles me into despair.

In my senior IB English class, I remember sitting in the same seats other students have sat, and enviously watched as glorified alumni knock on the classroom door, followed by a warm reception from the teacher, a lovely introduction in which the teacher recognizes the student’s high-achievements. The students conclude with a success story – what they’re now studying in their current academic major. And sometimes, the occasional post-grads will come through and give even more dignified, laudatory introductions of their seasoned professions, and how Mr. O’Connor taught them how to parse through countless groundbreaking works of literature with expertise and flair.

I have fantasized that I could bravely walk into old familiar high school hallways and knowingly point at classrooms that I was instructed in. I have always had a dying urge to pay homage to the teachers that shaped my character, intellect, and even my mind. I may have hidden behind my book bag and shyness, but I still cared, way more than I expressed. While most people deplored school, skipped as often as they could, hated their teachers for assigning so much work, and found solace in their friends in between classes, during lunch in the cafeteria, and after school, I never missed school and always came early to class. I actually believed my teachers were my friends – often, my only friends. The ones that understood me, my work ethic, my heart, and whether I was having a bad day. Sometimes, I wondered if my teachers secretly knew that I came to class early not because I had to turn something in but because I avoided locker bays, hallways, and crowds. I found solace in my classrooms; they were my sanctuary. Fortunately, my teachers tacitly pretended not to notice, and I continued coming early.

I loved my teachers, each and every one of them. The frizzy haired, unkempt ones with questionable hygiene; the divorced ones; the attractive, social ones; the quiet, thoughtful ones. Some more than others, based on who invested in me. I appreciated the time they took in painstakingly creating lesson plans, staying after to help students, acknowledging hard work, and willingness to teach students everything they knew about a certain topic – if they simply asked. I have kept all my papers, exams, and tests – just to remind myself that if no one else believed in me, my teachers believed in me.

And it’s with regret that after I graduated, I avoided returning to high school to show face to my teachers and let them know I’m doing well and am a product of their influence. I fear that the people that shaped me and provided a safe haven for me during my lonely days would not remember my name. And that would be the greatest disappointment to me. Knowing someone I secretly cared about forgot about me – not because they meant to, God forbid – but because of time elapsed and the constant influx of students that probably decreases their ability to retain any long-lasting attachments or memories. Maybe I’d knock on their classroom door. They’d greet me, a stranger, with kind eyes that helplessly search for clues in my altered identity. But instead, I’d be left standing in the doorway – in my adult shell – during the middle of a lesson, trying to recall the time they used my essays as xeroxed samples or announced my name as a finalist for a particular art competition. The teachers would simply not remember. Because they don’t have the brain capacity to remember every student they no longer teach. Or worse, because I didn’t make that great of an impact on them to remember; perhaps I didn’t raise my hand enough or answer questions nearly enough as the kid sitting in the front. After thanking the teacher for how they’ve shaped me and taught me so much about XYZ, I’d leave school grounds, wounded.

Just maybe, one day, I could swallow my fear and muster up the courage to walk back in there and thank Mr. O’Connelly for teaching me how to appreciate all literature – not just the ones that instill comfort and naivete; Ms. Stevens for inspiring me to pursue what gives me both editorial capacity and artistic vision – and with honesty; Miss Frank – because of her, I pursued journalism for a length of my undergraduate career; and then tell Mr. Karpicus how profound he was for teaching us about human worth, compassion, ethics, and philosophy through socratic debates, films, and novels. But more than that, how his earnest belief in me made me believe in myself. I may have come a long way in my journey – and conquering shyness – and may even be unrecognizable by most, but I’m still unchanged inside, deeply reverential and grateful, and to this day, moved by my former teachers, professors, and mentors.