I Got a Phone Call from the Year 1999…Oops 1997

In a plastic bin that had sat in my garage for over a decade, I found a picture of myself taken in 1997 while I was a student teacher at the Falk School in Buffalo, NY. I’m standing in front of a 19-foot bulletin board that I made by hand. The pride on my face was real.

The original post said 1999. This pic was taken in June 1997. I was 23 years old. The post was edited for accuracy.

My supervising teacher and I had been working on a series of lessons on homophones – words that sound the same but are spelled differently. There are so many, and they trip up early readers all the time. Like see and sea. Or to, too, and two.

As a student teacher at Niagara University, I was required to create a portfolio that included lesson plans, assessments, and photos like this one. Creativity earned extra credit – rightly so in teaching, though maybe not in chemistry.

Like all old photos, this one said a thousand words. But finding it in 2025 made me want to write a thousand more.

As I’m moving from a large house to a two-bedroom apartment, downsizing has become unavoidable. My son and I had to go through everything. And as it goes when digging through old boxes, the memories came flooding back. I couldn’t believe some of the junk I’d held onto – or the people and places I’d forgotten.

As soon as I saw that photo, I remembered pulling into Falk in my 1992 white Plymouth Sundance. It had a black spoiler and a hand-operated sunroof. One morning, I left my travel mug on the roof while loading up to head to school. I forgot it was there. When I backed out of the driveway, it tipped, fell through the open sunroof, and soaked me with coffee. I remember it clearly—because it was hella hot. And it burned.

Closest I could find on Google - No Spoiler

After I finished my student teaching, Falk hired me as a Special Education teacher. No official interview. On my last day, the principal called me into his office and handed me the keys to my first classroom. That was it. No ceremony. Just, “Go upstairs and get to work.”

And I did. I worked with a great team. On Fridays, we brought in homemade food to share. One snowy Buffalo morning, I spun out on the way to school with a pot of clam chowder in the passenger seat. The Sundance not only looked like a clam – it smelled like one for the rest of its days.

My classroom was the second window on the left on the second floor

But that photo reminded me of something even more important. I had wanted to become a Special Education teacher – and I was so proud when I did. I remembered my black Samsonite briefcase, how I’d run through it each night before bed to make sure I was ready for the next day. I still remember the unlock code…317.  Inside were lesson plans, a Duncan yo-yo, and a few magic tricks. You’d be amazed how quickly a yo-yo trick could reset a room of preteens. Or how making a coin disappear could get a kid to calm.

Within seconds of looking at that picture, all of it came back.

And then – honestly – it hurt. Because standing at that bulletin board 28 years ago, I never could’ve imagined some of the things I’d eventually witness: a teacher doing crystal meth in a school bathroom…a student slashing a classmate’s face with a razor right outside of my classroom…school committee members cheering when their own district’s budget was voted down…a superintendent writing – on record – that LGBTQ students were no different than the KKK…and another convicted of sexual assault, sentenced to actual prison time.

But here’s the thing – I can’t stay stuck in that part of the story. I’ve learned that bitterness isn’t just a roadblock to healing. It blinds you to the good that still exists.

Looking at that photo, I realized something simple yet powerful: the 23-year-old me still lives inside the 51-year-old me. The briefcase is long gone. So is the Sundance. But the young man who made that bulletin board? He’s still here. He studied hard. He showed up with purpose. And that desire – to help kids and families – has never left.

I’m tired, sure. When people say you’re seasoned, they’re not talking about oregano and basil. They’re talking about years of showing up, of getting knocked down, of witnessing the best and the worst. The more seasons you pass through, the more wear you carry.

And don’t tell me you’ve never stumbled. We all have. What matters is what comes next.

If that old picture taught me anything, it’s this: the heart that brought me into the classroom still beats strong. Time may have weathered me, but it hasn’t worn down my why.

I still believe in kids. I still believe in teachers. And I still think that showing up…with care, creativity, and consistency can change lives, even inside broken systems.

Resilience isn’t about pretending everything’s okay. It’s about remembering who you are – especially when the world tries to make you forget.

That bulletin board is long gone.  But the hands that built it?

Still here.