“She didn’t give up on me, ever.” — a former student of my mom’s
When I was at LCA two days after she passed, I remember walking the halls and seeing all the memorials and thinking, “What will be left of her when all these students are gone? When all of these teachers who remember her are gone?”
It’s the nature of schools to be in transition: students are flowing in and out due to family moves, better opportunities, social dynamics, and graduation. Mom was always the one who handled the biggest transition—the baby 6th graders. They were all new, all coming from different schools, and all had no idea who the others were. Mom was the one who became their go-to person for everything, no matter what it was.
I couldn’t imagine the six-grade class who entered LCA’s halls in 2019 not knowing my mother’s face and the way she smiled at them in the morning and how her laughter sounds when it floats down the hallway. It hurt too much to picture LCA in 2025 when there would be no student who saw how she drew her terrible whale and used the Annika button during a quiz (which is wailing “WAIIIIIIIIT!”). I turned to some other teacher and said something along these lines. They said, “We will make sure she lives on.”
But will she really? When we went as a family to honor the first recipients of the scholarship founded in my mom’s name, I found myself looking through the program with all of these names—names that had friends and family and students whose hearts probably hurt when they passed away but names that meant nothing to me. Who’s to say that wouldn’t happen to Mom’s name? And how could that happen to someone who dedicated 20+ years of her life to a school?
Today, I called my dad on the phone on my drive into work. A couple people in my life have recommended that I start to practice some silence, which I took to mean that I don’t always have to be consuming some form of media every second of the day and therefore shouldn’t always listen to podcasts on the way to work. Some days I do drive in silence, but today I wanted to connect with my favorite Massachusetts man. He mentioned not sleeping super well because of a card that he got from LCA with student messages in it.
When I saw the blue envelope in my mailbox later, I knew I was in for it.
Her colleagues talked about still feeling her presence at LCA and expressed well wishes of prayers. Some talked about how proud she would be of me. Students gave wishes of strength and shared personal memories. But the one that really got me was written by a student whose name I recognized.
After I graduated from LCA, I knew less and less of the sixth graders; however, on our family skypes my mom still told stories about her sixth-graders—who came to her constantly for help, who were becoming friends, who said something funny in class, and who was driving her up the wall. The note was from a student who my mom talked about (although I can’t remember if it was because he was amusing or because he needed a lot of help).
It cut through the performance of grief and delivered the simple truth—that Lori VanderKlay Johnson did not give up on her students, ever. She didn’t give up on any of her students, no matter how much of a hard time they were giving her. She sought out new strategies, talked to her colleagues, vented at home, and holed up in her bedroom at night all in order to come back the next morning and support that child the best she could.
In the position I’m in, there are a lot of students I want to give up on. Students who say things like, “Wow, can’t wait until we can choose our own elective and no one will want to pick art” or “I knew from the moment that I was in this class that we weren’t going to get along” or “You need to stop talking” or “Your breath stinks.” It’s easier to write them off and focus on the students who are actually giving me the time of day. But my mother knew that every student deserved someone in their corner who was fighting for them every step of the way.
Maybe none of the middle schoolers in two years will know my mom’s name. Maybe they’ll be in love with the new mama bear and their current English teacher—I hope they are. Maybe it’s okay that in six years no students will have had her as a teacher; she already made the impact she needed to make. Her memory will slowly seep out of LCA, but it will live in the hearts of students like the one above. Maybe it’ll even tuck itself into my own students.
When I was at LCA two days after she passed, I remember walking the halls and seeing all the memorials and thinking, “What will be left of her when all these students are gone? When all of these teachers who remember her are gone?”
It’s the nature of schools to be in transition: students are flowing in and out due to family moves, better opportunities, social dynamics, and graduation. Mom was always the one who handled the biggest transition—the baby 6th graders. They were all new, all coming from different schools, and all had no idea who the others were. Mom was the one who became their go-to person for everything, no matter what it was.
I couldn’t imagine the six-grade class who entered LCA’s halls in 2019 not knowing my mother’s face and the way she smiled at them in the morning and how her laughter sounds when it floats down the hallway. It hurt too much to picture LCA in 2025 when there would be no student who saw how she drew her terrible whale and used the Annika button during a quiz (which is wailing “WAIIIIIIIIT!”). I turned to some other teacher and said something along these lines. They said, “We will make sure she lives on.”
But will she really? When we went as a family to honor the first recipients of the scholarship founded in my mom’s name, I found myself looking through the program with all of these names—names that had friends and family and students whose hearts probably hurt when they passed away but names that meant nothing to me. Who’s to say that wouldn’t happen to Mom’s name? And how could that happen to someone who dedicated 20+ years of her life to a school?
Today, I called my dad on the phone on my drive into work. A couple people in my life have recommended that I start to practice some silence, which I took to mean that I don’t always have to be consuming some form of media every second of the day and therefore shouldn’t always listen to podcasts on the way to work. Some days I do drive in silence, but today I wanted to connect with my favorite Massachusetts man. He mentioned not sleeping super well because of a card that he got from LCA with student messages in it.
When I saw the blue envelope in my mailbox later, I knew I was in for it.
Her colleagues talked about still feeling her presence at LCA and expressed well wishes of prayers. Some talked about how proud she would be of me. Students gave wishes of strength and shared personal memories. But the one that really got me was written by a student whose name I recognized.
After I graduated from LCA, I knew less and less of the sixth graders; however, on our family skypes my mom still told stories about her sixth-graders—who came to her constantly for help, who were becoming friends, who said something funny in class, and who was driving her up the wall. The note was from a student who my mom talked about (although I can’t remember if it was because he was amusing or because he needed a lot of help).
It cut through the performance of grief and delivered the simple truth—that Lori VanderKlay Johnson did not give up on her students, ever. She didn’t give up on any of her students, no matter how much of a hard time they were giving her. She sought out new strategies, talked to her colleagues, vented at home, and holed up in her bedroom at night all in order to come back the next morning and support that child the best she could.
In the position I’m in, there are a lot of students I want to give up on. Students who say things like, “Wow, can’t wait until we can choose our own elective and no one will want to pick art” or “I knew from the moment that I was in this class that we weren’t going to get along” or “You need to stop talking” or “Your breath stinks.” It’s easier to write them off and focus on the students who are actually giving me the time of day. But my mother knew that every student deserved someone in their corner who was fighting for them every step of the way.
Maybe none of the middle schoolers in two years will know my mom’s name. Maybe they’ll be in love with the new mama bear and their current English teacher—I hope they are. Maybe it’s okay that in six years no students will have had her as a teacher; she already made the impact she needed to make. Her memory will slowly seep out of LCA, but it will live in the hearts of students like the one above. Maybe it’ll even tuck itself into my own students.