Ms Kerry Graham

Well if this isn’t the most fitting way to finish Teacher Appreciation Week.

Tonight’s sunset is beautiful in a way I’ve been praying to please see again soon. I’m on my deck—built within the last few years; I didn’t have it when I bought this house a decade ago, almost to the day, and into which you helped me move—and see someone pedaling by on the cross street below who, I think in the way he sits, reminds me of you.

Except you don’t look like that anymore, of course you don’t. The boy on the bike looks like what you used to look like, back when you were in high school, but not while I taught you. You probably looked like that sometime around the beginning of your senior year, when I was no longer your teacher and yet—always, of course—your teacher. When would I ever not be?

What do you look like now? You’re in your what, mid-twenties? Late twenties?! Oh, my gosh—it’s actually your birthday today! May 5th. Because of you, for almost 15 years, I smile at every mention of cingo de mayo. This day has always felt like the perfect one to be yours—something about the double 5s.

I’m smiling at how good it feels to remember how much I love you. Eager to wish you a happy birthday, I almost pull you up in my phone until remembering that my last text didn’t go through.

Then, somehow, I know.

I don’t know how. I just know that I know. My fingers poised to type your name in the search bar, finding proof of what I never want to be true, I think, “I don’t have to do this today. I can wait until it’s not his birthday.”

But because I already know, and waiting to confirm won’t change it—today, your birthday, turns out to be the day I’ve been afraid of this entire time—I look. Learn that, somehow, you’ve been gone since December 15, 2023.

We met when I was 28. Today, my lovely, you should have turned 29.

I love you, lovely. I’ll never have the right words, but thank god I always, of course have those.

“Lovely, well done on the work yesterday. Yours was the best out of everyone’s.”

She stares at me, so I stare back, and eventually say, “ . . . You heard me?”

“Yeah. Are you messing with me?”

“Girl what. Did you see your grade? It’s literally 100%.”

“Oh. Okay cool. Your voice is just so naturally sarcastic that I didn’t know if you was playin.”

Baltimore adopted the mantra “The City That Reads” in the late ’80s, plastering it on benches throughout the city, around the same time I was discovering a love for books.

I remember those capitalized white letters on wooden slats making me feel like I truly belonged in Baltimore because I’ve been, if nothing else, a lifelong reader.

As a toddler, I didn’t sleep with a blankie, like one of my brothers did, or a special stuffed animal, like my other brother. Instead, I slept with a copy of “Goodnight Moon.” It wasn’t long before my mother, a now-retired nurse, described the ripped and wrinkled book as being “in critical condition.”

In elementary school, I read chapter books while I walked outside. My seventh grade language arts teacher asked our class to set personal reading goals, and then doubted mine. “Fifty minutes a night? Are you sure you want to read that much?”

Nearly every college student complains about being saddled with cumbersome reading, but I declared English as one of my majors so I could read novels, creative nonfiction, and poetry instead of just textbooks. Years later, when I realized I wanted to teach, I only saw one viable option: high school English.

But first, I was an AmeriCorps volunteer, serving unhoused people living with HIV/AIDS. Together, my clients and I studied for the GED, wrote resumes and filled out job applications — often at a library. These moments, surrounded by books and nudging toward goals, made me fall in love with Baltimore’s library system.

My AmeriCorps assignment required me to travel the city, meeting my clients where they were. I remember researching Enoch Pratt’s numerous branches and telling my father, whose job was also mobile, “I want to collect as many of the libraries as I can,” as if they were charms on a bracelet.

I have been curating my own written collection of libraries for decades. Below are some of my favorites.

A lifelong reader’s favorite library branches in Baltimore I’m an outspoken advocate for Baltimore, in part because of our historic library system. Enoch Pratt provides for all of our city’s residents.

My Secret Novel opens at this intersection, at sunset, on April 20th.

Last night, on my way to family dinner, I parked the car, stood here, and celebrated how much I love that I’m a writer.

After I received my new ID (with my original photo from summer 2011) at school today, I gifted the lovelies a show and tell.

“Hey, lovelies, this is from my first year of teaching. Do I look like me?”

When my second class came in, I told them how some from my first pointed at my ID, said, “Aura,” and when I asked if I still had it, SAID NO. The first lovely who I showed in the second class hadn’t been listening to me as I said any of this, so when she said, “Ms Graham, you look the same,” I told her I was gonna give her a point.

“Hold up hold up hold up Ms Graham lemme see that too. [ . . . ] Oh, Ms Graham, you cute as a BUTTON.”

“Girl, yes, you the same except for your hair.”

“Wait, if you’re 27 here, how old are you now?”

“You look like a mom.” (To which I said, “What does that mean?” and her friend looked and said, “Oh yeah she do,” and I said, “What does that mean?” and they both shrugged, and I said, “Do I look like a mom now?” and they said—immediately and simultaneously—“No.”)

“Ms Graham, you look lean.”

“When were you born? 1983? This makes me wish I was born in 1982.”
. . And I still have two more classes to show on Monday.

He doesn’t make it to class often; when he does, he’s insightful and good-natured and persistent. Today, he arrived late, did his work, and promised to return tomorrow.

So when he walked back in my room just a few minutes later, I was surprised.

“Hey, lovely. You good?”

“Yeah. Ms. Graham, can you please check my schedule for me? I forgot where I gotta go next.”

“Wait, you really don’t remember your schedule?”

“I know I got either math or health right now.”

“Lovely. You knew to come to my class, though! How you gonna—“

“Yeah, but you G-Baby. I’m not forgettin about you.”

I kicked off fourth quarter by asking the lovelies to list ten things that make them proud for today's warm-up.

"Okay, start finishing your thought, please," I say after a few moments. "If anyone's willing to share, I'd love to hear something from your list."

"Ms. Graham, I'm ready to go right now," says a lovely who--to put it kindly--didn't live up to his potential last quarter, and needs to lock in for this one.

"I appreciate that, and I'll definitely let you go first. Let's just give everyone a second to finish."

"Man, forget them. Can I read all ten? I wanna read all ten."

"Let's stick with like three."

"Okay, bet. I'm proud of . I'm proud of my father. I'm proud of my whole family, forreal. I'm proud that I come to school and am the intelligent young man that I am. And I'm proud of you, Ms. Graham."

I almost don't ask. "Wow, I'm honored to be included on such a list. Why are you proud of me?"

"Because you've been workin on your attitude."

"My attitude," I repeat.

"Yeah. You don't yell the way you used to," he says. "I'm real proud of you for that."

Celebrating with selfies: I’m (officially!) back where I belong. 💜💜💜

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The latest version of the Kentucky state budget could effectively wipe out Dolly Parton's Imagination Library Program in the state, a book-gifting initiative that has mailed 8,635,423 free books to Kentucky children. Details below.