Recently in a meeting at work we had to introduce ourselves and participate in an icebreaker. Normally these kinds of activities trigger an involuntary eyeroll. But this one was a little different. We each shared who our favorite teacher was and why.

There were people who spoke about their favorite teacher helping them learn how to write, learn how to be more artistic and less serious. One particular person shared that her favorite was a man who was one of the few survivors of the Bataan Death March, a man who cultivated culture in his students and played an old record of the song Le Mer.

I was so moved by the honest and sweet answers I wanted to share with you the story of my own favorite teacher, Mrs. Gentile.

I am the youngest of five siblings. I was an “oops” and came nine years after the last child. My mother was 40 when she had me. I had a sense of always feeling like I was trying to catch up. My oldest brother (14 years older than me) went into the Marine Corps when I was 5 and he was 19. Within two years he would be deployed to Saudi Arabia for the Gulf Conflict. These were stressful times in my household. I don’t remember conversations or understanding what was happening. I just remember feelings. I remember sneaking out of my room to watch (hiding down the hall) a movie my family was watching about war. I knew my brother was at war. The movie was about Vietnam with shadowy scenes in a wet jungle. But I had no idea the difference between Vietnam and Saudi Arabia. War was all the same to me.

It was during this time that my second-grade teacher, Mrs. Gentile, signed me up to be part of the Big Brother Big Sister program and a “Big Sister” came to hang out with me during designated times at school and we also had outings after school. I ended up being the flower girl in her wedding.

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In high school I was telling someone about having a Big Sister when I was in second grade. The girl looked at me and laughed and said “that’s for poor kids.” Up until then I really hadn’t reflected on why I was selected for the program. I just accepted it as the fun friendship it was. I’ll never forget the girl who said that snide comment to me. People blurt out rude things, immature things, ignorant things, and I try not to hold it against this person, but the sting has stuck with me. It stuck with me all the way until age 24 when I ran into Mrs. Gentile.

I hugged her and thanked her for being such a great teacher. And then I asked her why she signed me up for the Big Brother Big Sister program. (I would like to point out that it’s not that I wasn’t poor and felt indignation at the accusation. We did grow up lean. But I just didn’t believe that was really the reason for the Big Brother Big Sister program.)

Mrs. Gentile told me that our family was going through a hard time with my brother being deployed. That the stress was weighing on my little seven-year-old soul and she thought I needed an escape from the stress at home. I’m not sure if I ever would have put those pieces together on my own. Of course the littlest of the family was getting dragged along the emotional processing of all the other (mostly) adults in the house. We are not a family that talked about feelings. So I can only imagine what came bubbling up at school that Mrs. Gentile identified.

I am forever grateful for her kindness. For her extra efforts and generous gifts of her time and emotional currency. When I shared my story, my voice got a little gravelly and I knew that there was a lot more affection there than I had given much credit to.

It might be that your favorite teacher is no longer of this world, or that you’ve lost track to even be able to share how that person touched your life. But if you want to, you could share this post, for your friends who are teachers. To remind them, they are each a Mrs. Gentile to someone. Probably several someones. We are all deeply indebted to the wonderful teachers who built us and continue to build up our youth.