My Grade School Teacher
by W. Wayne Lin

I missed your ninetieth birthday party,
I missed your funeral one year later.
It was almost sixty years ago
we bade farewell to each other.

Sixty years, a lifetime, a gulf apart.
I still remember your voice and handsome profile,
while writing clear lessons and instructions
with elegant handwriting on the board.

Day after day, tirelessly,
you pressed us to catch up, to excel.
Making sure we learned enough before
we grew up to face the challenges ahead.

I did not know the obstacles you knew.
All I wanted was to get out of the school.
I wanted to grow, grow out of grade school.
The distant junior high would give me
an excuse to get my own bike.
Riding my bike through miles and miles
of winding streets,
navigating through the bustling traffic
was the only hurdle ahead I knew.

Another year, another class of graduates.
Was it a relief to see us enter
a new milestone in life?
Or was it a worry to see
unprepared minds and souls
about to risk the next unknown duress?

Through all these years, I’ve begun to learn
what you had known: the ugly reality,
the peril, the trap, the pitfall,
the dishonesty and pretension.
The truth that means nothing,
the fact that can be distorted.

I miss the days that I needed
only to finish the homework
you gave me. And that constituted
a good day, a complete day.

The decency you taught me
may have left a mark in my life.
The least I shall tell you,
I miss your voice,
the homework you gave me,
and I wish
life can be that simple again.



 

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