On the side wall of our classroom, Mr. Billings would put up pieces of writing we wrote that he thought were particularly powerful.

A short story I wrote made it up there once.

I thought, maybe I could be a writer.

He made us read depressing books about injustice. He forced us to look past personal biases to discern the heart of a person. He walked us through the idealism toward government and disillusionment and what it might look like to fight for our ideals anyway.

Most people I talk to hated middle school.

Mr. Billings is one of the reasons I loved it.

He taught me how to think for myself, how to look beneath the surface of things. And he believed in me.

Wherever he is in the world, I hope he knows his encouragement kept me writing to this day.