Just Monday I shared about a special gift I received from a student many years ago. That story is a wonderful one to me but it tugs at my heartstrings because I feel like I was once a teacher but am not one any longer. My psychiatrist fights me on this point, saying that while I may not feel like I am a teacher it is, technically, what I do. He and I have “fun” discussions going round and round this topic and while I never come out of these conversations the victor, I still never feel like he’s right.
Yesterday a package came in the mail for me all the way from China. One of my students had asked for my address so that she could send me something for Christmas. The request alone bowled me over, but when I received the actual package in the mail I was brought to tears. It wasn’t the lovingly picked out pashmina which made me melt, and it wasn’t the handmade hair bow in the colors of my country’s flag, though it came close. It was the card she made for me. It is all in English with meticulously formed letters. It is loving and kind and beautiful. She made it for me because even over the thousands of miles, even just seeing the top quarter of me and hearing my voice through a computer, she genuinely loves me, and I do her.
I’ll never win an argument with my psychiatrist again.