Sarah is remembered, loved and missed. I will forever be grateful for the influence she had on my daughter who was a student of hers.  Sarah lives on in so so many students .

XOXOXO

“What was your favorite subject in school?”

I graduated college after focusing on Music, English, and Journalism. You might try and guess my favorite subject, but don’t be fooled. It was Social Studies, and the reason was Sarah Wilkinson.

I was thirteen years old in 2001, a seventh grader. We were all new to Walnut Hills High School—the best public school in the city, high on the hill, littered with greco-roman statues and idyllic paintings. My classmates tore through the hallways, sneakers squeaking on the granite floors. They hung out on the portico with the marble columns, drinking Ohana Punch and eating tater tots from paper baskets. The classrooms were hot in the fall, cold in the winter, and hot in the spring. Open or closed, the big windows with their rattling panes were useless.

Mrs. Lynn was our Latin teacher. I remember my classmates goofing off, talking back, and generally walking all over poor Mrs. Lynn. I remember her being pushed past the point of caring, screaming at us. I didn’t learn much latin.

Mr. Sweeny was our English teacher. He was a cool guy, laid back. He liked to joke around, making a buddy-buddy atmosphere—read a book, talk about it, etc.—but still: I remember my classmates pushing his buttons, too. I remember a noisy afternoon that ended in shouting, with Mr. Sweeny slamming a book (The Pigman) on his desk. I don’t remember when I found my love of writing, but—sorry Mr. Sweeny!—it wasn’t in 7th grade.

Ms. Wilkinson was our History teacher. I remember her first class; the room still summer-hot, my classmates talking over one another, when in walks Ms. Wilkinson. She was shorter than most of my classmates. She was slim under long, dark clothes, her hair back, her face pointed forward.

“May I have your attention,” she said. Not loud, no need for it. She used conviction, a trait we hadn’t seen before. Her posture was perfect. Her hands were folded in front of her. She looked us in the eye, each in turn. She was serious, and the room quieted.

Ms. Wilkinson told us what topics we would cover. She told us what we would need to do, and how we would be graded. She told us that she would not tolerate rude behavior. All of my classmates believed Ms. Wilkinson but one, and he was foolish enough to test her. She threw him out and no one challenged her the rest of the year.

I don’t remember loving that class. I don’t remember much at all—my life was more about TV, snacks, and Dr. Pepper—but I did the work and passed. Two years later, I got my 9th grade schedule and saw that I would have Ms. Wilkinson again. I was fine with it. I showed up, followed her instructions, and did well. I remember her being nicer that year, even cracking a joke or two. Then, in senior year, I knowingly signed up for her Art History AP class.

Others have written about Ms. Wilkinson’s ability to teach what she loved, and I agree with all of them. (One missing detail: her adoration of a nun named Sister Wendy, who had an art show on PBS.) I want to add that Ms. Wilkinson taught other things not prescribed in any curriculum, like expectations and accountability. She taught what it meant to do good work, she taught the basic tenets of respect, and she did it all in front of a room full of hormone-addled idiots. She convinced us of the inconceivable—that a small, serious woman could command our attention.

So this morning, when someone asked, “What was your favorite subject in school?” I didn’t think of English, or Music, or working at the school paper. I didn’t consider college at all. I thought of Ms. Wilkinson in 2001, all of 30 years old. I thought of how she had died, and what a loss that was. I realized that I’m 32 and need to get to work. At my age, Ms. Wilkinson was already the best educator that I would ever have.