The young man behind the counter at the coffee shop said, “Hi, can I help you?”

        One of those genuine, “Hi! I know you and how are you doing "hi's'” slipped out before I could assess who he was. He smiled and started talking while my mind was doing the 440 relay to place him when he called me “Mrs. Eaton.” Just as I suspected, a former English student.

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        My brain's left hemisphere placed his face and passed the baton to my right hemisphere to run for a name and just knew he'd beat me to the finish line. He was pouring out his life history like it was water and I was a sunflower wilting in the August heat. I was nodding and half-smiling. Then he said that dreaded phrase, “You don't remember me, do you?”

        I could see it was one more letdown in the valley of his life that had left him working for minimum wage in this coffee shop.

        “If course I do,” I said. “I'm working on your name.” He wasn't going to risk another failure, so he said, “I'm Dan,” like that would clarify it all. I passed that baton again and tried to remember which class was he in, where did he sit, what kind of student was he? Did I like this boy? He was trying too hard, talking away about himself, but he was bitter too.

        His smile never reached his eyes and his cynicism burned my ears. My mind was panting now, like an old coon dog, but still running. Dan didn't know I always remember. Sometimes it takes me a while, but teachers who really care never forget a face. Not even the ones they want to.

        “I was doing pretty bad in 11th grade English until you taught The Scarlet Letter,” he said. That helped. Yes, Dan, who sat in the back near the windows. Dan, who ducked his head and squirreled around in his seat. Dan, who wasn't a member of the in-crowd. Dan, who was smart enough to figure out character motivation, even though he never did his homework. Dan, who just wanted someone to really care. I remember you, Dan.

        Now, I know about your adult life. That you tried college but didn't finish. That you were in the military, but now work in a coffee shop. That you married and divorced. That you work to pay $67.50 a week in child support — to a little girl you cannot find. That you struggled to find yourself in high school and you are struggling again. I can only hope your bitterness today is because you were so happy once and you know what you have lost. I don't want to believe the other choice, that for some people, life is never easy.

        Like most teachers, I felt compelled to give advice. I wanted to say, “find a way past your bitternesss and reach out to your ex-wife so that you can share your love with your only child.” I wanted to say, “If you let your daughter go, you'll always regret it.” I wanted to say, “Dan, I still care.” But life is your teacher now, so I limited myself to, “Dan, don't give up. Go find your daughter,” and I lowered my eyes and walked away.

        The race was over. I was left holding your baton of pain and confusion. As I walked back to my car, I wondered what to do with it.

        On the way home, I realized you had given me a gift. You shared with me that you were failing when I replaced another teacher midyear, and that my enthusiastic teaching of The Scarlet Letter helped you brighten. You went on to college and studied to become, of all things, an English teacher.

        You were telling me that I had touched you, that I had made a difference. It is the only real reason teachers teach. Fear not, Dan, you are permanently etched into the racetrack of my mind. I hope the next time I see you, you are wearing your gold medal. You've just given me mine.

        Corinne Smalfelt Eaton, 37, lives in Hebron with her husband, Garfield, and two sons, Mitchell and Grant. A former English teacher and horseback riding instructor, her commentaries for WNKU (89.7 FM) air every other Friday at 6:30 a.m. and 8:30 a.m. and 4:30 p.m. and 6:30 p.m.

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