Dear Mr. Quesnel:
I’ve tried to call you Louis, as you urged, but I couldn’t, despite my efforts. Mr. Quesnel seemed a more respectful greeting, though time made us friends. John Donne, born in London in 1571, told us, “Death comes equally to us all, and makes us equal when it comes.”
Surely, the lives of those who sheltered us in our youth, who were an example of kindness and non-judgment, of acceptance and welcome while urging us to be our best selves, will not sit on the shelf as an equal, but instead will be held up as extraordinary.
All these 57 years later, after first walking into Room #214 in 1969, I have carried the memory of your kindness in my pocket, tucked away safely, ready to pull out when I lost sight of myself or feared humanity was doomed or to simply make a day happier. I wonder how many students would sign the list of having been seen by you, been comforted, been encouraged, made joyous by your easy laugh? I am certain the list would be a long one, a record of one extraordinary page of a life well lived.
I can still see your smile as you tolerated my effusive gratitude over the years, holding up your hand in confusion as to my praise. “I was just a teacher,” you once said. That is the best part of kindness; we have no idea when we extend it to someone how that simple act can change the day or the life of that individual. You stood at the door of homeroom, and your smile said, “Come in, you are welcome, you are safe here.”
We exchanged letters at Christmas, friendly notes wishing you and Glenda the best of the season, always hopeful our paths would cross again. We remembered the school trip to Quebec to join in the celebration of the Winter Carnival with Monsieur Bonhomme, hopefully to hone some our French speaking skills though mine were sadly lacking.
You and Mr. Von Niebelschutz supervised our long bus ride to Quebec City, always tolerant of teenage antics. What fun it was! We chatted in the dark while most were asleep, you asking how I wanted to live my adult life, where life might take me, how best to start the journey.
I reluctantly bid you adieu, wishing there had been more visits, more exchanges of thoughts and ideas and stories. Thanking you, as always, for your light, and hoping you know you were loved by the so many who passed through your classrooms. I like the world better with you in it, but wish you a gentle journey. You are remembered.
