Dear Mr. Wickett
A letter to my childhood science teacher
Blog post by Jonathan Flynn| Illustration by Isa Kaufman-Geballe
Twelve years ago, a little boy with curly blonde hair and wide hazel-eyes walked into your classroom. He was a loud little boy, always squirming and talking whenever he had the chance. You scolded him a few times for it, but never made him feel bad. Not every kid can say the same about their teachers.
The other kids told him you’d be mean and scary, and that your class would be too hard. When he told his mother about it, she made sure he would be in that room. She wanted him to be challenged. He’d thank her for it later.
In his elementary school, your classroom was the only one with computers. The boy sat underneath the window in the far-right corner of the room, his eyes constantly drifting from the board, outside, and to the screen in front of him. He used to play video games with the other students when you weren’t looking. The boy had a computer back home that he could play on, but many of the other children weren’t so lucky.
When the boy’s father was sent to serve in Kuwait, you were there for him in his place. When he felt overwhelmed and anxious about his math homework and tests, you were there to help. You taught him that it’s okay for men to share their feelings and emotions. You taught him that it’s okay to be angry. You taught him that it’s okay for boys to cry.
You had your students sit on the floor as you read them your favorite books. You took them across Middle Earth with Bilbo Baggins and the twelve dwarves. They explored the moons of Jupiter with Bill Lermer and other colonists.They felt the pangs of loss when flowers were laid on Algernon’s grave. The boy still loves those stories.
One day, you drove the class out to the desert to show them the universe. You brought telescopes, star charts, and inspiration. That night, as they lay under the stars in their cots and sleeping bags, you told them stories of the constellations — not just the Greek stories, but also the stories of the indigenous peoples of the southwest. You didn’t just teach them how to use a telescope, but why they should. Since then, the little boy hasn’t stopped looking up.
When the boy later told you he wanted to be an astronaut, you didn’t laugh like the others. Instead you told him that if he studied hard, got good grades, and persevered when things got tough, he could do anything. It turns out things are a little more complicated than that, but nonetheless, the fact that you believed in him gave him the motivation he would need later in life.
The little boy went to high school and eventually went to college. He had a hard time with math, but he’s much better at it now. He’s all grown up now and will talk to anyone who will listen about the stars, planets, and other natural wonders of the universe with the same sense of inspiration you gave him all those years ago.
He’s been thinking a lot about you lately. This December, he’s getting a degree in environmental science, and in a few months, he’s going to be a science teacher in the Peace Corps.
And even though people still laugh when he says it, he’s going to be an astronaut one day.
