Writing Your Name

 I remember the day.  My colleague who taught right next door to me came over to see me a few minutes before the first afternoon class that day.  She'd been assisting some of the counselors with programing for next year so I wasn't too surprised with her request.  

"Is it possible," she asked, "for me to pull out your students one at a time to check in with them about their programs for senior year?" 

I had no problem with that.  It was a 90-minute block class and my American Lit students were finishing up an assignment, after which we'd share responses and discuss the play we were currently reading.  My only concern was that everyone is back in the room by the last 15-20 minutes of the period.  She assured me they would.

So, that's what happened.  Students were called one at a time and they quietly exited and reentered the classroom until all 30 or so were finished.  Marilyn, my neighbor, popped her hear inside the door, thanked me, and then went on her way.

I thought nothing more of this until the last week of that 2004 school year.  That's when I found out what they were really doing.  A handful of students in that class got the idea of burning in their names to a student desk and presenting it to me so that I would not forget them.  The concepts of personal identity, alienation, and immortality had been big ideas in much of the literature we read and discussed that school year.  Of particular interest was an Arthur Miller quote about immortality.  In describing Willy Loman's desire to be known and liked, Miller once said, "It's like writing your name on a cake of ice on a hot July day."  Obviously, that resonated with this group.  

I've kept this student desk and recently removed it to my garage, where I now use it to sit and chat with my neighbors as we share a drink and catch up with each other.  Since the pandemic, we've been having these outside, in the courtyard get-togethers in front of our garages.  I have the perfect seat, complete with a built-in table.  Recently I put a picture of the desk on Facebook and heard from many former students as well as friends.  These former students are now in their mid-30s and many are parents of high school students themselves.  The signatures they left me are in fine shape.  Burned in with a wood-burning kit, there are also some small messages.  I'm not sure that this gesture will insure immortality, but I do know that the desk will be here long after I'm gone.  It won't melt either,