Of course, there have been other teachers I remember. Some more fondly than others. I think, if I am honest about my educational career, I didn't really stand out as being the model student. I wasn't in any clubs (until college), I didn't run for any political office (until college), I wasn't class valedictorian (in college either). I was simply an average student. If I ever became famous, or if I went to a school reunion, I don't think many of my teachers would remember me or have anything extraordinary to say.
I ran into my junior high school band teacher, Mr. Flamini, at a Borders Bookstore, a few years ago. He looked exactly the same to me. He was a short man who had a big bushy brown moustache, and big curly brown hair. He had the horseshoe look on his head back then too, and the only thing that changed about his appearance was the color of everything. No more brown. Just like me, I guess. When I saw him, I thought about what I should do. He was my band teacher for two years. While there were a lot of kids in band, I was in the Jazz Band in 8th grade. I played trumpet; first chair. That, in and of itself, made me think we had some type of connection. I assumed he would remember me because we spent so much time together. I thought about not approaching him, but then my ego got the best of me.
"Excuse me," I said. Mr. Flamini was at the register to my right. He looked over at me, directly at my face. His expression did not change. He began looking at me with guarded confusion and stayed that way. I realized that no light was going to pop on in his head, signaling him to shout, "Well, if it isn't Cory Fosco! I've always wondered what happened to you. Gosh, it's great to see you." Nope, instead, he looked down on the floor, as if he dropped something. "No," I said, "You were my junior high band teacher. Mr. Flamini, right?"
He continued to interact with the clerk, hoping she would finish his transaction quicker than she was. "Yes," he said, "I am. I'm sorry, though, I've taught many students. I don't remember your face. I don't remember your name."
I guess a person can change after so many years, especially from the awkward teenage years to the slightly less awkward 30's. My features, my shape, my style, were all different. That's why he was having such trouble (notice I did not include height. I've been the same, 5'4", since junior high).
"My name's Cory," I said, extending my hand, "Cory Fosco. I was your student in the early 80's."
He shook my hand, quickly. "Wow, that's a long time ago. I'm sorry I don't remember you. But it was nice to see you again, Cory." He collected his bags from the clerk, and looked around the area to make sure he had everything. "Real nice. Take care."
I watched him walk out of the store, and thought about why he reacted the way he did. I am sure it wasn't the first time one of his former students from "a long time ago"approached him in a public place. Maybe he was just embarrassed. Maybe he was suffering from dementia. Maybe I just didn't leave an impression.
I didn't have the passion for the trumpet like some of the other kids in the band. Tony Laurie, for example, who played the saxophone, was a natural talent. I envied him whenever he played. It always seemed so easy for him, and he always looked like he was enjoying himself. I was okay, but he was better. I would bet if Tony ran into Mr. Flamini at Borders, they'd have a nice enjoyable conversation.
That's my point, I guess. Sometimes students, like me, don't leave a lasting impression on their teachers. Just like I cannot remember many of my teacher's names, or the contribution they made on my life, I cannot expect anything different from them.
It's all about the effort, and if there's one thing I'm beginning to understand as I get older, it's often better to make the effort than to simply pass through life.
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