I can’t remember the circumstances of that visit with my former history teacher. Maybe I was collecting makeup work for my brother, Chet, who was in her class at the time. Or maybe I just stopped in to say “Hello.” My high school teachers felt a little like my extended family to me, especially now that my father had died, and I only had one parent left, a very dedicated, overworked and probably exhausted parent. Talking with my teachers gave me other adult perspectives on the angst, drama and isolation of adolescence.
I only remember one comment from that conversation with my history teacher. She said, “Your brother is not the student you were, Kristen.” She probably meant it as a compliment to me. She may have regretted the comment the instant she said it. I just remember feeling taken aback, annoyed with both of them, embarrassed, and a little sorry for him, as I made my exit. Continue Reading