Writing this letter and thinking of those times summons from sealed inner crevices the sort of insecurity that makes me fear that you might not remember me at all. I certainly did nothing noteworthy in your class. On the contrary, I consistently was the slowest, the weakest, the least nimble and coordinated, and always the very last to be chosen in team activities. Yet I remember well your loving kindness and am assured that you probably do remember me, if only because of the degree to which I stood out in those respects and because my mother was a French teacher at our school.
As I think about your gym class so many years later, three things stand out most prominently in my mind. First, during both years that you were my teacher, I had P.E. right after lunch, which made an already uncomfortable experience even less pleasant. Second, I remember changing into our gym uniform -- how I hated those polyester gym shorts, which clung so unceremoniously to my thighs -- and then back into our regular clothes, which meant spending the last periods of the day caked in perspiration. Third, and most important, I remember that you were always there for me and the others who did not belong, and I will never forget that.
During South Carolina's cool autumn months, after the oppressive humidity had lifted to release refreshing breezes that had been locked away since spring, you would lead us all down to the main track, where we began our cross-country course. No matter how disheveled your troops, you were always distinguished in your pressed tennis shorts and short-sleeve sports polo shirt, your whistle fastened snugly around your neck.
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