“Good morning, class,” said Mr. Anderson even though it was the last hour of the day and was at least one p.m., morning was over. His hairline was thinned, it’s  odd the way it thinned because where his glasses rested there’s no hair at all. As if they had rubbed off the hair. He had a deep voice that changed into different tones. His upper body was quite muscular, and he looked to be in shape for a man in his forties. He was Mr. Anderson, and he was and is an English teacher.

I remember my first months in his classroom. I hated it, dreaded English. It was like that through seventh grade, and part way through eighth grade. After I realized how much he cared about each student and what he taught, I knew this because he was determined to make me learn it and he knew if anything was wrong. He was not what I saw him as. He was a teacher, but not any teacher, he was Mr. Anderson. Mr. Anderson doesn’t teach, he immerses me in a world of English and character voices. When he would read books, you connected to the story. With the high pitched girl voices he would do, or the deep angry villain voices he would do.

I hated reading. Through eighth grade, though, I started to pick up books, and would finish them. Loving each one. He helped me pick books that he think I would like. He wouldn’t assign me lame books to read either, you would be assigned books like The Outsiders. A classic of sorts, but not in an English classroom. That book was the start of my reading adventures of eighth grade.

He wasn’t just my teacher though, he was also a counselor. I went through my mom’s second divorce when I was in his class. He helped me through it, even if he didn’t know. I never told him what was going on during this time. I felt that he knew something was wrong, but I also felt that he didn’t want to know exactly what was going on. I felt that he’s more comfortable helping without knowing exactly what was going on. He wasn’t nosey, even though if he was I wouldn’t have minded.

I remember we would get in arguments during class, this was before I realized how much I connected with him. He would always make me talk about why after class. At one time he  got to me, he read me to well and I was caught off guard. He dug deep into my roots and unrooted problems that I still had with my mom and dads divorce. This is when I made a real connection with him. I realized that Mr. Anderson always knew what was going on, even if we didn’t tell him.

Mr. Anderson was Johnny and I was Ponyboy. He was looking out, he was helping, leading me on the right path, making me who I am today.  He’d have your back and never blame me, he’d know that there is another reason for you getting angry or lashing out. He’d teach you but without holding your hand, he’d show you the way to go but without walking with you. Mr. Anderson was one of the best teachers I ever had, even if I didn’t realize it until after I was out of his class.