A couple days ago, I opened my email to find the following message from a former student:
HEY MR. COPPERMAN HOW ARE YOU DOING? AND I AM A SOPHOMORE THIS YEAR AND I REALLY MISS YOU SO MUCH YOU WAS THE BEST TEACHER I EVER HAD I WISH YOU COULD COME BACK!!!! WHERE DO YOU LIVE NOW???
I told him I taught at the University of Oregon now-- as if the concept of University or Oregon had any substance to him. He went on to say:
I WILL START MY FIRST DAY OF HIGH SCHOOL TOMORROW, IM KINDA NERVOUS THOUGH!!!!!!! BUT I HAVE AN AMAZING LIFE I HAVE A CAR NOW AND ALOT OF AMAZING FRIENDS!!!!!!! BUT I WILL NEVER FORGET THE TIMES IN FOURTH GRADE!!!!!! I WILL CHERISH THOSE MEMORIES FOREVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
In these last five years, I have written all about this student in my novel-- he is a central character, and a tragic one, a bright, promising kid with no outlet for his boundless curiousity and energy. I have fictionalized his life as if it were frozen in the moment I left: for me, Indianola was fixed and static. What a strange and wonderful discovery, that this student remembers, that he's in high school now, with a car and friends and a future discrete from my imagining.
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