We'll cherish all the mem'ries dear, That cluster 'round our sojourn here

So here's a quick bit on me: I went to boarding school. The Hotchkiss School, a highly regarded prep school in Connecticut, gave me a full ride and I, wanting a brand new experience, took my talents to Lakeville, Connecticut. I don't think I was mentally prepared for this brand new world, and I don't think I was until about a month before I left for good. I retired from my boarding school career after two years, but before I left, my advisor, Mr. Lou Pressman, gave me a book called The Children, by David Halberstam. After I had left for home, I opened the book and found this message:

Jeremy,
I'm not going to let you leave Hotchkiss without taking the chance to say a few things. 

I know these almost two years at Hotchkiss have been tough. As your time here has drawn to a close, it would have been understandable if you has abandoned all effort to keep learning and given up on yourself.But you didn't do either. You've kept at your studies- kept learning- right to the end. And you've held on to your dignity, as you should- because you've got tremendous potential. You're going to go on in your life to do so much that will give you many reasons for real pride! 

I hope you read this book, thick though it is (If you choose not to read it, it will make a great door stop!) It tells the story of some truly extraordinary young men and women, who, working together, found resources of courage and discipline in themselves that helped change the world. 

You're a pretty extraordinary young man too, Jeremy. Don't ever doubt that, just because of the obstacles you met in Lakeville or the work still to be done developing your skills. Keep believing in yourself, my friend. You take with you my high hopes and deep respect. 

Yours,
Lou Pressman

I thought back to a lot of things- Mr. Pressman proactively taking me under his wing as an advisor my lower mid year, his one on one chats after our club soccer meetings, and his constant attempts to help me fix what was broken in my life at the time. His overall care for me as a student, coupled with the fact that I'd never really realized that fact until I'd never see him again, came to a head. I sat in my room and bawled like a baby for an hour.

You see, for a long time in my life, the only redeeming attribute I had was being smart; or at least, that's the only thing people complimented me on. Not my sense of humor, not my kind spirit, or my desire to attain knowledge, but just that I was smart; I just knew a lot of random stuff that other people didn't. I wasn't athletic; I was somewhat outgoing but not popular. People recruited me for Bow Tie Bowl (an all-school trivia competition at Hotchkiss), but past that, I wasn't seen for much else outside of my small circle of friends.

Now, along comes this guy, who at the time was the only person outside of my immediate family at the time to put value on something other than my brain; and as any teenager will tell you, when you're fifteen years old, your family members, specifially your parents, are the last people you look towards for an opinion. But to be totally fair, how well do you know yourself at fifteen to dismiss a parent's advice? But there it was, written on the inside of a book, just for me. They weren't words from some sappy, half hearted self help manual. They were true, honest words from a man I considered a mentor and a friend. That, more than anything else, helped me realize my self worth at the time, and let me tell you- I undervalued my self worth then- by a lot.

I haven't talked to Mr. Pressman since my class graduated from Hotchkiss nearly six years ago- I don't even know if he remembers ever writing this note, or even buying the book he wrote it in. But I hope that this entry finds him well, and that one day, if I ever return to Hotchkiss and find him still teaching, that we can reminisce on old times, and that I, as a fully formed adult, will still find myself as curious, as voracious for knowledge, and still as in love with learning as I was at fifteen.