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Thursday, March 8, 2012

To My Teacher. To My Friend.

My middle school had one hall. A single corridor lined with classrooms on each side. Each year you moved down a little further in the hall until you one day reached the door at the opposite end...and you graduated. I began the journey with the first door on the left--Miss Gotzian’s. Over the course of 4 years, I made it from one end to the next. And each year I grew a little taller and a little deeper, and I saw my perspective change with the subsequent Fall. At that age, so much changes each year, and everything seems so much bigger than it is, which makes it exciting, and dramatic, and sometimes scary. You’re sure a football championship is the greatest accomplishment you will ever have and a break-up is the end of the world. Our guides at these crucial moments provide us with stability and comfort, and we are shaped in these moments by their advice and their presence. Miss Gotzian was one of my rocks through these moments and she would never cease to be that foundation. I moved down that hall each year, which put me farther and farther from her room as the seasons passed. When I graduated, I moved yet farther away from it. High school, college, and beyond saw me move farther and farther away. But in actuality, I was never far from Miss Gotzian’s room.

16 years later, I am still not far from that room.

The truth is, each year that I grow older and move farther away, the lessons I learned there make a little more sense, the place becomes a bit more sacred, and my respect and love for the teacher whose presence made it what it was, grows thicker.

Something happens within those four walls that never leaves those who were shaped within them. We never saw the world the same way after we left. This was her intention.

Years before I ever set foot in that classroom, two of my cousins had been taught by Miss Gotzian. She also knew my dad for years. She was considered a family friend. When I finally reached that room, she told me something that I still remember very clearly. She said, ‘I have heard so much about you from your cousins, and I have watched you come up through this school. I have been waiting for you.” That was the beginning of our bond. She became my teacher that year, and in the years that followed, she would become one of the best friends I will ever have.

When I got to high school, Miss Gotzian insisted that I no longer call her by her formal name. I cannot tell you how difficult this was. I simply couldn’t do it for years. Eventually, I was able to address her with the name she preferred, but it was only after many loud scoldings (from her) and many apologies (from me). So from this point on, I will refer to my friend, as Jill.

I have always found it difficult to define our relationship. When I said I was going to see Jill, people would ask me who that is. I never quite figured out how to answer that question. I would usually begin by saying that she was my 5th grade teacher. But that always felt far too surface, so I would say that she was a family friend. But again, that didn’t do it justice, so after a long explanation full of comparisons and analogies, I would just say, “She is one of my best friends.”

I understand that people don’t normally have such close friends with 26 years between their ages, but that is just one of the many reasons why our friendship was so special, so unique, and so powerful.

Through my middle school years, I probably spent an equal amount of time in her classroom as I did in the actual room I was supposed to be in. My best friend, Paul, and I would spend most of our time devising methods/schemes to get out of class in those years, and when we got out of class, we always went to the same place. It’s not like Jill stopped teaching when we came by and interrupted her class; we would just become part of it. We would talk with her as she was teaching. We would help her teach. We would find anything to do to try and justify being there. As I said earlier, there was something special about that room. We were drawn there.

In high school, I would make regular trips to her classroom after school. Always unannounced. I would just walk in and take a seat on top of the desk that faced hers, and she would always stop whatever grading or planning she was working on to listen to whatever I needed to say. From dating advice to coming to terms with death, with Jill, there was nothing that you couldn’t talk about. She would listen no matter how silly, serious, or personal. As anyone who has ever truly talked with her would testify to, she had little to no filter on what she would say, and that rubbed off on you. And this leads to one of the things I came to love about her most. When you come to someone with a problem or complex situation that doesn’t have a clear-cut answer, people are often hesitant to offer an opinion. Jill was not one of these people. Jill always gave her opinion. And it was a strong opinion. Her voice convinced you that her words were wise. You never left her company without knowing how she felt. That may be the single greatest quality I will miss about her. She was always friend enough to tell it to you straight. And there were many times that she told me opinions that I did not want to hear...but I heard them. I heard them and trusted. Jill had all my trust.

I craved her honesty.

Everyone remembers her booming voice that you could hear from the hall well before you stepped foot in her classroom. She spoke so loudly, almost yelling, like she was making sure that each word was heard and valued, but she didn’t need to; we were listening. We were always listening.

In college, when life moments happened, or critical decisions had to be made, or if I just needed centering, I would once again find myself in her classroom, sitting on the that same desk that I had been pouring my heart out from for 10 years. One day I stopped by and she was getting ready to teach a grammar lesson. We were talking before her class started and she said, “Why don’t you teach this one?” I was hesitant for a moment, but in true Jill form, she insisted, and I taught it. That was the first lesson I ever taught. As I think about it now, what a fitting place.

All teachers are influenced by those who taught them. Jill was always proud of the fact that so many of her students became teachers, and she always pointed out that they were good teachers. On more than more occasion, she said to me, “You know Zack, I could put one heck of a school together with my students who are teaching now.” And she was right. While I can’t speak for the others, I feel confident that because they are a product of JIll, they must teach with the same values she infused in us. Jill taught me how to use the curriculum and the position to also teach what we felt was truly important: Life. Within her daily courses, the undertones were rich. They were what shaped us. She taught us what true strength is. True Strength. The kind that kept her fighting a merciless disease for years that that would confine her to a scooter and severely limit the usage of her arms. True Strength. The kind that you would have to possess to listen to other people complain about their problems while you battle this...and not just listen, but truly care. Those of you reading this that knew her know exactly what I am talking about. She taught us to serve, to treat people they way they deserved to be treated, to be honest, to live with integrity, to guide, to listen, to have faith, and how to yell with love.

She also taught us how to be humble and to do two of the most difficult things a human can do: ask for help and accept the help that others offer.

She taught us that it is ok for a teacher to tell her students that she cares about them, and if they won’t listen, or can’t understand it yet, to show them.

She had such a message. Some of us became teachers to continue the message. She delivered it to us, and just to make sure we understood it, she lived it out right in front of us each and every day. We all saw it, for some of us it hit home harder than others, but we all received her grace.

And some of us understood that we had a responsibility to ensure that the message and lessons not only made it outside of her classroom--we had the honor of making sure that they found their way into new classrooms. We had the desire to inspire our students and hope that some would hear the message as clearly as we did, and that we would be able to take on the greatest responsibility--inspiring the next generation of teachers to carry on her legacy.

At her funeral, hundreds of students made a pilgrimage back to Miss Gotzian to pay their respects, to say thank you. We were asked to stand up and identify ourselves. So we stood for everyone to see. We stood for her values. We stood for her hours of service. We stood for her voice. We stood for her opinions. We stood for her steadfast belief in God. We stood to acknowledge that we were there, that we had heard, that we are walking in her likeness as a result of her belief in us. We stood because we knew she would do the same for us. We stood for Miss Gotzian.

And some of us also had the privilege of standing for “Jill”.


I found out Jill was in the hospital late at night last week. The next morning I had planned to teach chapter 5 of The Outsiders, a novel taught to me by JIll 16 years ago, and one we have deeply discussed together in the years since. The theme of my lesson was being a ‘real’ person. With a heavy heart, I taught it, and I taught about my teacher, my mentor, my friend, and one of the most ‘real’ people of my life. I told my class about JIll and the influence she had on me and the immense part she played in the fact that I was standing before them. I told them one of my favorite stories about her. I cried in front of them. And just as JIll did for all those years, I showed them that it is ok to feel. It is ok to be real.

I dismissed my class and thought about JIll and all that I had gained from her. And as is natural, I thought about all that I had lost: One of my first calls in triumphs and tribulations, a rock, a voice, an ear, an opinion, a mentor, someone to put me in my place, the constant reminder of the impact one person can have on so many, and the reminder that a teacher’s bond with his or her students does not stop at the door and does not end in June.

I sat at my desk in an empty classroom for some time, unable to move, frozen by nostalgia. That’s when a student walked in and handed me a folded, handmade card. I opened it, and at the top it said, “Mr. Cunningham, I am so sorry for the loss of your teacher and friend.”

And at the bottom of the page, in the most simple of sentences, I received the greatest compliment and challenge of my life.

“You are my Miss Gotzian.”

Your lessons will continue to be taught Jill. We will deliver them for you. We don’t have your voice, but we have your words.




Please feel free to send this to anyone you know who knew Jill Gotzian. Her message needs to continue to be shared.

4 comments:

  1. Zack, this is absolutely beautiful. Your friend would be so honored to hear all of this. I am truly sorry for your loss. You are a true inspiration, thank you for this.

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  2. Zack, as they would say on your side of the world, this is brilliant.

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  3. Wow! What a beautiful tribute to my friend and sister-in-law Jill. The fact you're carrying on her legacy by sharing her values and wisdom with your own students is incredible! Jan, Jill's sister just re-posted this and I'm so glad she did! I was truly touched. Thank you!

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