It was that time of year again, a new class of boys and girls no other teacher could handle ... one boy was sixteen - the solution? Give them all to Mr. Walker.

Bobby B, the sixteen-year-old, had a reading level of a second grader.

I took Bobby B aside that first week and dropped a three-pound seventh grade literature book on his desk. After the thump, I said, "Bobby B, you can pretend you can read this and carry it everywhere - or ... I can teach you how to read. What would you like?"

It took less than a scintilla of a moment for him to reply: "I want to read."

So, I taught him the basics from lowest level he could comprehend. I read literature and poetry to him and his class every day. One of those poems was Langston Hughes'; Hold Fast to Dreams.

That was forty years ago and Bobby B just looked me up online. He called me in a video chat and told me I was his favorite teacher. He reminded me of that poem and started quoting from memory: Hold Fast to Dreams for when dreams die, life's a broken wing that cannot, fly. Hold fast to dreams for when dreams go, life's a barren field frozen with snow.

Then he rolled up his right sleeve and showed me his tattoo: Hold Fast to Dreams.

The End

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