Letter to a Young Teacher

A beloved teacher’s final advice is a clarion call for public education — and for civilization itself.

This week I lost a hero.

She was my teacher. One of those teachers. The kind that stay with you. Maybe you had two or three.

Elaine Blais was one of mine. She was a formidable presence, her silver hair and thick-rimmed glasses conjuring Meryl Streep’s character in The Devil Wears Prada.

But beneath her sternness was humour and a profound heart. Her seriousness belied her essence, which was warm and giving. If she came off as intimidating, it was because she understood the seriousness of her job. Hers was a tough love.

She possessed a formidable mind. She read widely and voraciously. And her standards were impossibly high. Hers was your lowest mark. Hers was where you were called on not to perform but to think.

She was preparing you — you see that now — for what was ahead, for the world in which you were already a participant. Her rigour was designed not to shape you in her own image but to shape you up for what was not far ahead. In fact — guess what, kiddo!— you were already a participant. No time to lose, then: wake up now. This world is one that hopes to catch you sleeping.