Birth Month - Day 28

Teachers play an important role in the lives of our children.  I knew when Andrew liked or disliked a teacher within the first week of the class.  Their level of enthusiasm and ability to capture and hold his attention meant he would have a good semester.  Too much homework or the same old boring thing he already mastered meant he would do just enough to get through the class but he wouldn't enjoy it or learn anything new.  I knew how the teacher impacted his life, but I never knew how he impacted their lives, until he died.

Below are two notes I got from three of his teachers - all Language Arts teachers - which was odd to me, because I always thought Andrew preferred science and math.  I was touched they took the time to reach out and recall how Andrew made a difference for them.  I am grateful to them and hope they all continue to teach and shape the minds of future generations.

And this came in email:

Dear Ms. Carson,

I originally wrote this on Good Friday, when I heard of Andrew’s passing. I wanted to send you a personal letter or card, but just couldn’t find it in myself. Then, I was going to send you a type-written letter.  And then I lost my words. Please read what I have to say. It’s my original message and more:

Where do I begin?  I suppose with an apology for sending a type-written letter.  I am a big believer in tradition and find it terribly inappropriate that anyone would send such a thing as I am doing now—without the cursive handwriting and sloppy penmanship—without the teardrops that blur the ink (although I promise you, the keyboard of my laptop is definitely soaked).  But I’m doing it.  I’m typing my condolences.  In my defense, modern technology makes it so much easier to compose my thoughts, edit them, and make them more coherent.

Andrew was a student in my sixth grade language arts class at Duluth Middle School.  It was my first year teaching middle school.  Ever.  I was much younger, much more optimistic, and much more passionate about my career when I taught your son.  Previously, I worked in marketing, mostly in Las Vegas.  I was a copywriter and advertising coordinator. I liked my job but I knew it was an empty promise.  I wanted to be more like my mother—I wanted to be a teacher.  I left my demanding job at Boyd Gaming and took a lowly paying position at a Catholic School to pursue my Master’s Degree.  At the time, this little office job was more convenient and conducive to what I ultimately wanted.  And then somehow, by the Grace of God, (and a newspaper advertisement in the Chicago Tribune), I learned about Gwinnett County Public Schools.  After graduating, I packed my bags and started over. 

That’s when I met Andrew. This is where I pause and struggle with my words.  Maybe they won’t be articulate or meaningful.  But they are true.  I remember Andrew’s freckles and his moppy hair. I remember how easily he blushed when I teased him. He was very quiet mostly. Almost solemn.   He was the kind of boy that had a story, but nobody knew what it was.  On the outside, Andrew was the quintessential All-American boy. Andrew was handsome, rugged, athletic.  He was a good student.  He was popular and loved by his classmates, yet I always sensed there was something more.  Maybe he was wise beyond his years.  I will never know.

Then Andrew became a stranger to me.  I say this both lovingly and jokingly. I struggle with my words even more now—trying to remember something that is actually so fresh in my mind.  On social media, I asked former students to help me move my classroom when I learned that I would be transitioning from sixth grade to seventh grade at Duluth Middle School.  The girls from Andrew’s class were excited!  I would provide them with lunch (pizza and pop) and then we would spend some time together.  I never heard from Andrew or even expected him.  And then he showed up.

And this is how it went:  I saw a big, strong man walking through the halls of Duluth Middle School.  I asked him if he was lost.  He said, “Ms. Opalka, it’s me.  Andrew Carson.”  I couldn’t believe it.  Andrew was unrecognizable.  Ironically, that’s how I remember him. A dichotomy.  A young, rosy faced boy all grown-up.  Lifting furniture.  Helping.  Moving.  A deep voice.  Funny. Sweet.  Still quiet.  He was a gentleman.  And that’s it. My last interaction with him. Quick. Casual. We ate our pizza and went about separate ways. And that was that. 

And now is now. Life toys with us, I suppose.  Again, I apologize that it’s taken me so long to write this, to contact you personally. As a teacher who truly loves her students, Andrew will always be in my heart. You and your family will always be in my prayers.  Best wishes.

With great care and comfort, 

Susie