Like many children who went through the educational system – I have had a lot of teachers. I probably even remember most of them. The good and the bad.

I remember my first grade teacher who took us to her family Christmas tree farm. She was an older maternal woman who was the typical first grade teacher who still reminds me of chocolate chip cookies and encouraged us to brush our teeth. In fact, she had toothbrushes for each of us so we could brush right after lunch. That practice ceased once it was discovered that germs could spread between the thirty odd toothbrushes.

My third grade teacher directed us in Wizard of Oz and taught us how to make tissue paper flowers.

My fifth grade teacher allowed me to come in early when I was having a hard time and cry at her desk while she patted my back. She also taught us all of the Presidents and let us improvise our own plays about the Civil War (they became extremely off topic and I believe referred to Charlotte’s Web and fake feces at one point).

I had an sixth and seventh grade math teacher who told me daily that things would get better and that I was just more “mature” than the other children.

There was of course the teacher who I had a massive crush on which caused me to become a prodigy in typing which still serves me to to this day.

I had a teacher in the sixth grade who didn’t want to get in the middle of a bullying situation so she wouldn’t make eye contact with me or acknowledge the person who was bullying me by using sharp pencils against my legs, using foul names or accusations. I also had the 8th grade teacher who told me in the middle of class that I chewed gum like a cow.

In High School I had the teacher who allowed me to be his student aid but required that my daily activity consist of getting him a coffee and a maple bar.

There was also the teacher who introduced a project that I had done and received a perfect score on as “it was done by someone you would never suspect of excelling”.

But there was not a teacher who impacted me more than Mr. Pool in my high school choir class. I never particularly have felt I have a good singing voice but I certainly don’t break any mirrors (or people are too kind to grimace when I sing). But I sang in Junior High for all three years and then High School for two years. Singing provides an outlet. You don’t need to be coordinated, athletic, or beautiful. Singing in a choir allowed me to bring myself.

I remember the first day of high school sitting on the stairs in the choir room – absolutely terrified, insecure, and expectant of the teacher calling me “Neena” and contemplating if I should correct him publicly or in private if ever. Mr. Pool entered the room and took roll call (he asked me how I pronounced my name and I responded with “NINE-UH”, hoping no one else would notice me.) Once he began to speak- I’m not even sure if we sang anything that first day- I become someone in the crowd. Part of a group that would eventually sing in one voice, together. I felt safe. A part of something.

I enjoyed those mornings of choir class. The songs we sang became at once recognizable and forever a favorite. I would love when Mr. Pool would “pick” on me because he always said he only picked on people he liked. I would feel honored when he teased or mentioned me. I certainly felt special and apart of his class.

He was the Music Director in my first high school musical during my freshman year. My favorite highlights of that year was singing in the chorus and performing on the stage. It was the first, but not the last, time that I was allowed to perform on the theater stage. It forever gave me the confidence of performing under Mr. Pool’s direction.

I auditioned for one of the “higher” choirs at the end of that first year of high school. I didn’t get in but I’m not sure if I was even disappointed or embarrassed. I knew I would sing along with him that next year and that was enough. While most of my fellow choir members moved on to the next group, a few of us stayed in the beginning choir. The fact that I stuck with the beginning choir seemed to make Mr. Pool appreciate me more and he continued to be my favorite teacher.

Things changed halfway through my second year of high school. I had been struggling with a personal health issue. My parents were concerned and I truly didn’t think it was an issue and of course didn’t want anyone to notice. After all those years in school being unnoticed, why would people start noticing me now? I easily melted into the background of students, adults, or other groups. Part of the reason I was in choir was so I could be of one voice with no one paying attention.

But Mr. Pool caught me. He cared enough (much to my horror) to ask if I was alright. I was stunned the morning he asked me. He pulled me aside before class began. “Are you alright?” he asked. “I’ve been worried”. I reassured him of course I was alright. His concerns were valid but my parents and I were working on it. He told me that was good and to let him know if I needed anything at all.

I went back to my little spot in the room. My safe little spot which didn’t seem so safe anymore. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. That someone had “caught me” and could see I wasn’t well. In a strange way, I felt betrayed. That Mr. Pool cared enough to call me on something that I didn’t want to be called on.

Shortly after, I dropped his course. I told him I was doing it because I needed to for scheduling reasons. He had to have known that high school class scheduling is never so complicated that you can only take a certain course at a certain time. I assured him I would enroll the next year. I assured him I would return. I never did.

I did figure things out late in my senior year of high school. I realized that I was sick and I needed someone like him to say he noticed – someone other than my parents who knew what the heck was going on with me. I wrote and gave Mr. Pool a long letter, explaining that I appreciated him and that he meant a lot to me. I told him that sometimes it takes a teacher or another adult to show they care. But, I never signed up for another choir class. And I always regretted it.

When I found out Mr. Pool passed away this year – twenty years after he told me he was worried – my heart sank. I had seen him from time to time, but never felt close to him again. It could have been me and my guilt over the way I reacted, but I never was again able to bond with him. I thought of him often, thought about the songs we sang- especially the Irish blessing we closed every year with – a song that will forever be a favorite.

Now, in my “adulthood” and being so wise, I have thought about how I should have reacted. And also the importance of telling someone I care about that I worry about THEM.

What’s terribly strange is I loved choir because I could be invisible -only seen by Mr. Pool. But when he did SEE me, I rebelled. I have rarely rebelled during my life but that was definitely one time I shrugged my shoulders out of the grasp.

From the stories I heard and read following his death, I realize that he was a teacher who always cared- whether he was grumpy or goofy- he always cared in his own way. I was just one of many students he impacted for life. I wish I could tell him thank you. I wish I could tell him I knew he cared and I was sorry I walked away when he showed me his concern. He’d probably tell me to get over it and move on. Forever in my heart- Mr. Pool will always reside.

So for all the teachers that impacted me for better or for worse- I thank them. I am the person I am partly because of each of them. And especially you Mr. Pool- thank you for allowing me to be a part of the one voice, but also for caring enough to lose me.