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As I’ve mentioned often, memory is an important asset for a writer – and artists in general. Perhaps we can’t rely on memory for factual accuracy, but its connection with affective impact is undeniable. Moreover, precisely because of their emotive undertones, old memories can be impulsive, subjective, and come unannounced and unexplained. Remembering an old teacher of mine definitely falls under this category.

Like most of us, I’ve had many teachers in my lifetime. Teachers in elementary school, high school, university, and all sorts of other places. Some of them I remember very vaguely, likely because they were forgettable as teachers. Others I remember well for negative reasons – indeed, you can read about a recent example in my post on teaching literature.

Hell, I remember well one of those teachers because once he got some sort of nervous breakdown, took an object out of his bag – which was later revealed to be brass knuckles – and hit me and another dozen students with it, then proceeded to teach physics.

Obviously enough, I also remember many of my old teachers because they were good teachers, supporting my learning and making me feel positive about the overall experience.

But there is one specific teacher whom I remember well, and positively, though I was at his class only once. Remembering an old teacher who only taught you once isn’t very common, and the fact that this memory came out of nowhere these days felt interesting enough to write a post about.