I had the best high school teachers.  In fact, the only teachers I’ve kept in touch with are my high school ones – no college, law school, etc.  and only three.

The fourth would have been my European history teacher, Mr. Baxter.  A subject that was decently interesting.  On a side note, the kids’ favorite classes are library (this isn’t even a subject!) and art (ok, I can live with that).  

Mr. Baxter was a big black man.  A former tank commander.  Loud, moody (one time someone or other had upset him, so he sulked the whole period and refused to teach).  My friend told me he used to refer to less academically oriented students as something less than flattering.  

He had interesting tastes in music, knew his subject inside out, and made us memorize these maps of locations and rivers (really hard to identify on photocopies).  He also attended our events, not an easy feat for a teacher.  He cared.  I got to play the opening to Hotel California for him and his wife at a concert.  He was impressed.

He and I didn’t get along initially.  Back then, I had already learned to put on my armor.  He saw the real me when he wrote up some incendiary question on missionaries.  I have little love for the savior types, but without missionaries, a good number of my family wouldn’t be educated.  So I wrote an equally fiery response.  And to my surprise, he loved it.

He once wrote one line on an interim report that I will never forget – “A future leader of men.”  That’s it, one line.  No reference to my academic performance in his class.  Whether he meant it or not, for an immigrant kid, it has been tattooed in my heart.

Mr. Baxter died of cancer when I was in law school.  Servant.  Molder of men and women.  Hero.  Human. Immortal.