Dear Prudence

Not a single day of my junior year of high school went by without a long, melodious "Hello, my dahhhhlings!" when my classmates and I walked into third period Pre-AP English. "How are all my kiddlets and bubbleses?" Our teacher, Prudence Hockley, was exactly the kind of engaging, encouraging, challenging, respected, and just downright cool instructor that makes even the greatest teachers feel inadequate. To this day I don't think of Hockley as a mortal. She was a god. She was going to outlast the Apocalypse.

Except that on Christmas Eve she died.

Every day was beautiful with her. I looked forward to every class, even the days on which we were scheduled to write what my friends and I lovingly called "in-classers" - essays written in class and often on a prompt we did not receive until the bell rang. Hockley was otherworldly in everything she did. She was so buff that just the threat of her muscles was enough to inspire us to finish our assigned reading. She was a feminist with short, spiky hair, high heels, a pierced nose, and tattoos. She could kick your ass. She was fabulous.

With her gorgeously exotic Kiwi accent she would teach us about iambic pentameter and wouldn't let us move on to the next lesson until we were saying "slahhhhnt rhyme" instead of "slant rhyme." She taught me the meaning of the word fey (quaint). While we were working quietly in our groups one morning she left the room, darting back in before the door had latched closed to ask us why it was that she had left in the first place. She called on me to explain a quote from Macbeth and after I had stuttered my way through my misreading she asked, "Is that really what he means?" She was no-nonsense but would occasionally stop class to get the low-down on the latest hallway gossip. One day the principal came over the intercom to tell us that we were having a modified lock down but to continue with class and not lock our doors. Hockley locked ours and went back to her lesson with a "that'll teach 'em to f*#$ with me!" twinkle in her eyes.

She made every one of her students feel like the most important person in her life. No question was stupid, no observation too obvious. We were all her children and she nurtured us and celebrated our accomplishments as if we were related by blood.

And she was effing hilarious:

-"She likes to hear herself talk. It's like verbal diarrhea."
-"So don't fall off the horse, the wagon, the donkey, or anything else that moves that you're riding."
-"Mind you, this movie was not set on a stage. It was set in the mud, with blood and chickens and medieval spiky things."
-"I do not want to read some crap like, 'The dreams flowed in a plethora of myriads.' I hate that shit! This isn't a Hallmark card, people, this is analysis!

Prudence Hockley was easily one of the three best teachers I've ever had, and there's no doubt that she has influenced my life more than most people I know and most people I will ever know. She made me love what I couldn't understand because it meant that there would always be something for me to learn. She taught me to think critically, to never accept an answer that was simply given.

I lit a candle tonight for you, Hockley. May you never forget how extraordinary you were and how often you were cited as the reason why your students loved to learn. I carry your lessons with me to this day and I will carry them with me for the rest of my life. I can't fathom how the world is still turning without you. 

I love you.

Thank you.