Top 10 Memorable Essays on Teacher-Student Bonds Told from a First-Person Perspective

If anyone were to ask: “Who was the teacher you admired the most during your five years in elementary school?” I would immediately answer: “That would be Mr. Nha.” He was the teacher who wholeheartedly taught me in first grade, and to me, he was like a second father. Even though it’s been a long time since we parted ways, the memories from my first grade with him are unforgettable. In class, I was the only student who wrote with my left hand, so Mr. Nha had to carefully guide me, holding my hand to help shape each letter. Despite his efforts, my fingers refused to follow, and the letters never aligned properly, always looking crooked as if someone had struck them with a stick. Yet, my left hand, despite having no formal guidance, wrote much more beautifully, making Mr. Nha exclaim, “This is unbelievable.” One day, during writing class, the most stressful class for me at the time, when Mr. Nha stepped out to take a phone call, I quickly switched to using my left hand. At the end of the lesson, Mr. Nha asked me to submit my notebook for grading. I nervously watched as he sat up, patted my head, and said:

- “Thang, you did great today! Your handwriting looks wonderful! You’ve made remarkable progress.”

Then, he turned to the class and said loudly:

- “Let’s all give a big round of applause to celebrate Thang’s improvement!”

Seeing the joy and trust in his eyes, I felt deeply ashamed. That night, I couldn’t sleep. The next morning, I decided to tell Mr. Nha the truth. But, sitting in class, I lacked the courage to confess. It wasn’t until after school, when everyone else had left and Mr. Nha was about to go home, that I approached him and said:

- “Mr. Nha, I need to tell you something.”

He looked at me and asked:

- “What’s going on, Thang?”

Even though I had prepared for this moment, I felt nervous. I stammered and finally said:

- “Sir, about yesterday…”

- “What happened yesterday?”

I broke down in tears:

- “Sir, I lied to you yesterday. That handwriting exercise wasn’t written with my right hand as you thought, it was the result of my left hand.”

When Mr. Nha heard this, his face showed signs of sadness and mild anger, but after a moment, his expression softened. He gently wiped away my tears and said:

- “Stop crying, it’s not good for a boy to cry like that. Everyone makes mistakes at least once in their life. But what’s important is whether the person owns up to it, like you just did. Now, go home. I’ll forgive this time, but don’t let it happen again, okay? Go on now.”

I felt a surge of relief, thanked him, grabbed my bag, and hurried home, promising myself to be more diligent in my studies to honor Mr. Nha’s trust.

Though I’ve long since left elementary school, time may pass, and many things may fade, but the image of that beloved teacher will forever stay with me throughout my life.

Nearly six years of schooling have passed, and I’ve been deeply impressed by many of my teachers. Each one has left me with beautiful memories that will never fade. But the one who stands out the most, and whom I cherish the most, is my fifth-grade teacher.

I’ve noticed that very few people choose the teaching profession, yet my teacher has always been passionate about it. He shared with us that he wanted to be a teacher since middle school. He loved watching his teacher teach and dreamed of standing confidently at the front of the class, respected and loved by students. Even as a child, he would make his younger siblings sit in neat rows and pretend to be the teacher. Strangely, they would listen intently, though they probably didn’t understand much. He would finish his lesson, and they’d still be sitting there, lost in thought, only waking when he called them. This was the first spark that fueled his dream.

However, the path to becoming a teacher wasn’t easy. As the eldest son in a family of doctors, his parents had always expected him to follow in their footsteps and study medicine. He was smart, quick-witted, and a top student, so his family had high hopes for him. But in his senior year of high school, he surprised everyone by deciding to apply to the Pedagogical College, majoring in Primary Education. His family was shocked, especially his father, and they strongly opposed his decision. Though he faced many difficulties, he remained firm in his choice, patiently convincing them.

The day of his exam was the saddest for him. No words of encouragement, no support from his family. He took the exam alone, feeling lonely when he saw other candidates with their families. But he told himself that he had to stay strong. Even when he became the valedictorian, his joy wasn’t complete because his family refused to support his education financially. He had to fend for himself throughout college, working part-time jobs while studying, determined to prove that his choice was the right one.

Now, our young teacher stands before us, full of optimism and humor, but few would guess the hardships he endured. Today, he is a successful teacher—loved by all of us for his kindness and dedication. Though he is still young, he is wise beyond his years. In class, he is strict, but outside of class, he is friendly, approachable, and funny.

Sometimes, he plays soccer with the boys, and in those moments, he seems like a child himself. With his handsome looks, tall stature, and great singing voice, we often forget he is our teacher and instead see him as a famous singer, lost in his performance. What we remember most is his smile—it’s so bright that it can lift anyone’s spirits. Once, when he was sick and didn’t come to class, we were all anxious and worried.

At the end of the school day, we went to his house to check on him. When he saw us, he was deeply moved. He shook each of our hands and invited us to stay for dinner. His mother’s cooking was delicious, and we chatted happily. That night, we all understood him better, and it was a moment of connection between teacher and students. Now, it’s hard to find someone like him—our beloved primary school teacher. To us, he’s not just a teacher but also a great friend.

In remembering the teachers who shaped us, I think of the saying: “When you eat the fruit, remember the one who planted the tree; when you achieve success, remember your teacher.” It perfectly captures the reverence and respect we have for teachers. Among all the teachers I’ve had, the one who left the deepest impression on me is Ms. Kim Anh, our homeroom teacher.

Ms. Kim Anh has long, silky, black hair that always smells pleasant. Her large, dark eyes are firm yet gentle. When we achieved good results, her gaze was filled with warmth, but when we made mistakes, her eyes showed concern. Her hands, graceful and elegant, wrote with emotion, guiding us through the lessons. Her voice, soothing and lively, helped us concentrate and retain what we learned. She was strict when it came to teaching, but she was kind-hearted, always joking with us outside of class.

One memory I’ll never forget is when she went on a field trip with us. I could see the worry and unease in her face and eyes. Later, we learned that she had skipped an important exam to be with us because she feared something might happen, and she didn’t want to regret not being there. Another unforgettable moment was when I returned to school after missing two weeks. I was nervous, but she patiently reviewed everything I had missed, helped me catch up, and arranged for my classmates to share their notes. I was deeply grateful for her kindness.

Teaching is truly a noble profession, just as the saying goes, “The teacher is the boat that ferries knowledge across the river.” It’s a career I hope to pursue when I grow up. On Vietnam Teachers’ Day, I want to wish Ms. Kim Anh: “I wish you good health, and I love you so much!”

Perhaps, throughout my school years, no teacher has left such a deep impression or evoked such heartfelt affection as she did.

It wasn’t the start of the school year when she first entered our classroom. She took over from the previous teacher who transferred to another school. She was new to the school, and so were we—my class was a special one, with both gifted and struggling students. Despite the variety, we always supported and cared for each other. However, most teachers didn’t quite like us because of our noisy behavior and lack of discipline. Our class, 9A1, had 26 students. When she first came in, the class was as chaotic as a marketplace. But she didn’t show any anger. She calmly advised us, "Please be quiet so we can start the lesson."

Over time, it was as if we were all charmed by her sweet, warm words. Yes, she taught Literature, but she also taught us how to be better human beings. She had a beautiful voice, and although after 18 years of teaching it wasn’t as pristine as before, you could still feel the love in every word she read. I clearly remember the day she read "The Village" to us. We were completely silent. She once shared that she chose teaching because when her own teacher read "Old Man Hạc" to the class, the teacher cried a lot, leaving a deep impact on her. I loved Literature as well, which is why I wasn’t surprised when I was selected for the Literature Olympiad team. Although there wasn’t much time for preparation, she willingly tutored me and a few others at her home. We were all stunned when we arrived at her place.

Her house wasn’t in a luxury apartment complex, nor was it a spacious private house. It was in an old building at the end of Hoàng Quốc Việt Street, nearly 10 kilometers away from school. Her house was very small, and some of us had to sit on the floor with chairs serving as desks. But the cramped space was filled with her endless love and care for us. She treated us like her own children, and we thought of her home as our own. I remember one day, feeling so hungry after not having breakfast, I hesitated but asked her for a bowl of rice. The meal was simple—stewed tofu with tomato sauce and boiled water spinach—but it was delicious. Was it because I was starving or because I was so moved by her kindness? She loved us deeply, and we loved her back. But…

One day, we were informed that I couldn’t participate in the Literature Olympiad anymore. I was upset, confused, and even angry. I couldn’t understand why she would do that to me. I thought if I had known earlier, I would’ve just studied English and signed up for that competition instead. I was so mad at her. That day, I intentionally avoided her. I skipped the last two Literature periods to attend the English Olympiad training session since I was also on that team. I pretended not to know anything, but I cried a lot. I’m sure she knew, but she didn’t say anything about it.

At the next Literature Olympiad training session, one of my classmates asked her: "Teacher, who will be chosen from our group to participate in the Literature competition?" After a brief pause, she replied, "I don’t think any of you are ready for the competition yet, so don’t be disappointed." I noticed that she seemed tired, and her eyes were filled with sorrow. That day, she allowed us to take the rest of the class off.

That night, I reflected on her gaze and my actions, and I felt regretful. If she had scolded me, then I would’ve had a reason to be angry. But no, she spoke gently, and her eyes communicated everything. I looked inward and realized I had been wrong. "Teacher, I’m sorry!"

Some time later, for various reasons, our class changed homerooms, and who else but she became our new homeroom teacher. In the second week of her new role, she faced difficulties in imposing discipline on us, and her eyes were filled with sadness. She cared for us like a mother, ensuring we were ready for the final year exams, preparing for high school. At our age, we were carefree and playful. But teacher, we promise we will try our best, be good students, and be worthy of your trust. Please believe in us!

Her name, such a simple name, will forever echo in my heart because the name itself is already resonant. Yes, her name is Vũ Thị Ngân!

Throughout our lives, we all make mistakes, but some of them are so significant that we can never forget them. Whenever I recall my seventh-grade literature teacher, I can't help but feel remorse for the disrespect I showed her.

I used to believe that I was the most unfortunate child in the world. My mother gave birth to me, but I grew up without a father. Since I was young, people around me often belittled me, calling me a "bastard". Many parents forbade their children from interacting with me. I lived in isolation with my mother in a small, rundown house at the outskirts of town. I never felt kindness or affection from anyone but my mother. The two of us lived alone, without any relatives, and were scorned by everyone around us. To me, humanity seemed cruel and heartless—except for my gentle and loving mother, whom I admired and respected. When I started school, I didn't make friends. I was indifferent and detached from the others.

That year, I was in seventh grade. During one literature class, the teacher gave us a topic for an argumentative essay: "The kindhearted protect the less fortunate." She used relatable examples to show us how this reflects the kindness of the Vietnamese people. After her lecture, she asked us to write an essay, which she would review in the next class. The following lesson, she called a few students, including me, to submit their work. When it was my turn, she asked me, "Toàn, why is your paper blank? Did you not understand the lesson? If you didn’t, I can explain it again."

My response was so shocking that it left the whole class speechless. I raised my voice and said, "I didn’t do it because I didn’t care, not because I didn’t understand. Everything you said is a lie, made-up. There’s no such thing as kindness or love between people. Why should I prove that such a false idea is true?" I said these words without even realizing what I was saying. Perhaps all the frustrations I had been holding inside finally came out. The entire class stared at me in disbelief, and the teacher's face turned pale with anger. She said nothing but quickly walked out of the classroom. I could tell she was furious. Maybe she left to keep her emotions in check? For a moment, I regretted my words, but I still didn't feel I was wrong. The class leader came up to me gently and said, "Why were you so disrespectful? You should go apologize to her." I angrily replied, "I didn’t say anything wrong. I’m not at fault!"

After the incident, I was sure I would be expelled or at least that my parents would be called in. I was most worried about how my mother would react. At the end of the day, the teacher called me to meet her privately. I knew I would be reprimanded severely. When I entered her office, she was sitting there with a sad expression. Her dark eyes were filled with tears. I guessed she had been crying, which surprised me. What shocked me even more was that she didn’t scold me but instead calmly explained that my thinking was misguided. She told me that my classmates had always been there for me, and she had always cared for me. I felt incredibly guilty. I quietly apologized to her. She gently patted my head and said, "It’s good that you now understand. Don’t lose your faith in the goodness of people. I’m not angry with you." Despite her kind words, I still felt deeply guilty for being disrespectful to her.

I am truly grateful to her for teaching me the lesson of compassion and helping me restore my faith in humanity.

In life, everyone seeks a source of stability. For many, this anchor is family or parents. But those who have moved beyond their school days filled with unforgettable memories—like the schoolyard, the stone benches, and the podium—find peace in other places. It is here where boats rest, while teachers—the ones guiding them—continue their journey through the years, filling each boat with love and wisdom to navigate life’s path.

Indeed, I’ve journeyed on many boats to reach the harbor where I am now. One of those boats was filled with love and knowledge by Teacher Tuấn, my literature teacher. I can still clearly remember the first day he entered our class. Everyone was quietly studying when Hoàng suddenly exclaimed:

– Hey, everyone, we have a new member in class!

The entire class turned around in surprise. I boldly stood up and ushered the “newcomer” to a seat beside me. The class gathered around, eagerly asking questions. When he introduced himself, mentioning his age and profession, the entire class froze in confusion. Teacher Tuấn walked up to the podium and introduced himself:

– I am Teacher Tuấn, and from today, I will be your literature teacher.

He smiled gently. I was stunned by how youthful he appeared. Could he really be a teacher? Our school had never had such a young teacher before. That day, Teacher Tuấn didn’t teach a lesson; instead, he talked about the rules he expected us to follow. I remember, at the time, my group of mischievous friends—the “Five Devils”—was notorious for being troublesome. Seeing that Teacher Tuấn looked so young, we thought we’d have fun teasing him. In the next class, my friends and I scattered banana peels all over the podium to irritate him. When he entered and saw the mess, his eyes widened, and his brow furrowed. He looked at us, and we eagerly waited for him to scold us.

But to our surprise, no scolding came. Instead, he calmly avoided the peels, walked to the back of the class, grabbed a broom, and began cleaning the mess. He then continued the lesson as if nothing had happened.

The more this happened, the more we tried to come up with pranks to force him to transfer to another class. One day, we soaked his chair with water, another time we secretly clicked his phone during class, and we even threw paper airplanes when he wasn’t looking. I don’t remember how many tricks we played on him, but he always handled everything with patience. I was wrong—he wasn’t childish, we were the immature ones. Teacher Tuấn was composed and wise. Every other teacher who had taught our class couldn’t handle the “Five Devils” and ended up transferring. But Teacher Tuấn had us under control.

Eventually, we stopped our pranks. I decided to focus on listening to his lessons, and I was amazed! He was an excellent teacher, with a deep and soothing voice. His youthful face became serious as he taught, and I suddenly felt guilty for my previous behavior. At the end of the class, Teacher Tuấn called me up to the front. He looked at me kindly and said:

– Life is like a song, with both high and low notes. No song consists solely of beautiful high notes; it is the quiet moments that give it meaning.

Those words have stayed with me, and I still remember how embarrassed I felt at that moment. I regretted my actions deeply.

From that day on, I left the “Five Devils” group, and the class became more orderly. Teacher Tuấn made a lasting impact on our school. He was gentle, not overly strict, yet his methods brought real change. Meanwhile, the stricter teachers had to give up in frustration.

– Everyone, Teacher Tuấn is leaving soon.

The bell rang, and I froze. It had only been three months, but it felt much longer. He walked into the classroom, his face showing a hint of sadness:

– I’m sorry I couldn’t stay with you all longer. Thank you for the wonderful gifts I’ve received while teaching you.

– I’m sorry, Teacher! – I stood up and cried like a lost child.

– I will return, and I look forward to seeing you all mature.

He smiled softly, then left, leaving behind tearful faces and heavy hearts. The class sat in silence for the rest of the lesson.

Teacher Tuấn was right. Life is like a piece of music, and without the quiet pauses, we wouldn’t understand its full meaning. I will wait for the day he returns, to see how much I have grown.

When I skimmed through the assignment sheet at the start of the school year, I immediately noticed her name under the ‘class teacher’ section: Trần Thị Ngọc Lam. It was such a beautiful name, and it stuck with me. On the first day of class, wanting to distance myself from the noise of my classmates, I chose to sit at the far corner. It seemed like Teacher Lam noticed my intention, and she quickly moved me to a seat in the front row, facing the teacher’s desk. This made me a bit uncomfortable.

Teacher Lam was an excellent educator, often recognized with awards from the city and province. I didn’t dislike her, but I couldn’t stand the literature lessons she taught. Literature had brought me nothing but misfortune when I was in seventh grade. Ever since I first picked up a pen to write, my compositions had earned high praise, with teachers showering me with 9s and 10s. But when I transferred to a new school in seventh grade due to my father’s work, the literature teacher there was strict. She never gave anyone a 9. My first writing assignment got a 6, with comments like: “Disjointed description, awkward sentences. The writing lacks emotion.” I felt devastated, and from that moment, I developed a fear of writing essays. Literature lessons became a daily nightmare. During the school’s literary competition, I only won third place with the disappointing feedback: “Too many spelling errors.” From fear, I grew to despise the subject. By eighth grade, I began to ignore literature altogether. But then, Teacher Lam came along, and everything changed.

From the very first literature class, she paid special attention to me. She gave me more assignments than anyone else, often calling me to read aloud or answer questions. At first, I did the tasks with a rebellious attitude, thinking, “She must hate me.” But as time went on, I began to miss her assignments as though something was missing in my day. One day, she called me to the front and handed me a book, saying:

- Here, take this book and expand your knowledge. I think you’ll like it.

I awkwardly accepted the book, still smelling fresh paper. That night, after finishing my homework, I opened the book and began reading. It had been a long time since I had read something so captivating. My love for literature was slowly rekindled.

I studied harder and was chosen for the school’s literary team. Teacher Lam’s support for me grew stronger, and I started to enjoy the attention she gave me. I earned second place in the provincial literature competition. Among the crowd, I spotted her, smiling and nodding. I felt a surge of joy, and tears flowed down my face. At the end of the school year, I received an outstanding student award. On the last day of school, Teacher Lam wasn’t there to celebrate with me and the class. But when the class president handed me a book titled “The Southern Forest Land” with a note inside, I learned that she had been suffering from a severe throat tumor and needed surgery. The note read, “I knew you would make it. This is a small gift for you. Keep up the good work!” I was stunned and felt my tears flow uncontrollably.

I later found out that she had transferred to another school. But whenever I visited my old school, I would pass by the small classroom hidden behind the thick banyan tree, and I would remember her walking in with a stack of lesson plans and a warm, gentle smile, like the first rays of the sun.

The phoenix flowers bloomed vibrantly, painting a corner of the schoolyard red. Their bright crimson hue stirred the hearts of every student. The flowers not only enhanced the beauty of the summer sky but also symbolized the bittersweet moments of farewell. They marked the end of a year, the departure from beloved teachers, and the memories shared with my classmates and Teacher Vân.

On the first day at a new school, with new friends and teachers, excitement filled the air. Stepping into the classroom for the first time, I was surprised to find that some of my classmates were known troublemakers from the previous year—students with a reputation for fighting, being rebellious, and indulging in reckless behavior. I couldn’t quite understand it, but a sigh escaped me as I observed the situation.

Not long after, Teacher Vân, our class teacher and literature instructor, entered the room. The entire class stood up respectfully and welcomed her with a round of applause. She began the lesson with gentle, poignant folk songs, her delicate fingers writing neat, flowing letters on the board, while her warm, soothing voice conveyed the beauty of literature. Despite her efforts, a few students still whispered among themselves, distracted, playing with their phones during class... The culprits were Linh and Thùy, two notorious troublemakers. It seemed like Teacher Vân was visibly disappointed by their lack of respect. After a few moments of silence, she asked:

- What are you two doing during my lesson?

After a brief pause, Thùy nonchalantly replied:

- We’re just playing and putting on makeup with Linh.

- Why are you doing this during class time?

- Because we feel like it!

The entire class froze in shock. A student was not only disrupting class but being disrespectful to the teacher. Without saying a word, Teacher Vân silently left the room. Despite her absence, the behavior continued. Eventually, her patience reached its limit. One day, she asked Linh and Thùy to leave the class. Without hesitation or any apology, they walked out nonchalantly. Many in the class found her actions harsh. A few days later, a fight broke out in school between Linh, Thùy, and a group of other girls, resulting in Linh getting a head injury. Teacher Vân rushed to the scene, frantically asking:

- Linh, are you okay?

Linh coldly replied:

- You don’t need to worry about me!

Seeing Linh’s bleeding forehead, Teacher Vân immediately tried to stop the bleeding with bandages. Linh pushed her hand away, causing Teacher Vân to fall to the ground, and shouted:

- I don’t need your help!

Ignoring her words, Teacher Vân continued to bandage the wound and embraced Linh. It was evident that the love she showed her students had begun to soften Linh’s heart. As a witness to the scene, I was deeply moved by how a teacher’s unconditional care could change even the most rebellious student.

A few days later, our class noticed Teacher Vân’s absence, and we became curious. One afternoon, as I walked through the schoolyard, I overheard teachers mentioning that she had gone to Hanoi for gallbladder surgery. The news hit me like a lightning bolt. It was completely unexpected. The entire class was in a flurry. However, Linh remained unmoved, sitting silently in her seat.

It wasn’t until later that I realized Linh’s apparent indifference was hiding a deep sense of regret and sorrow. That evening, Linh stayed up all night folding a thousand paper cranes, wishing for Teacher Vân’s successful surgery and quick recovery. The next morning, Linh hurriedly rode her old bike to Teacher Vân’s house, despite the pain from a recent fall and the harsh winds. With the paper crane container in hand and her eyes filled with hope and concern, she rang the doorbell, but Teacher Vân had already left for the bus station. Linh ran after her, chasing a faint hope, an unspoken apology. Unfortunately, she arrived too late. Gently, Linh placed the crane container at the doorstep with a wish for the teacher’s swift recovery.

The bond between teacher and student, forged through trials and tribulations, remains deep and cherished. Teacher Vân was like a second mother, always ready to forgive and protect her students.

In the journey of our school life, we all carry memories that time cannot erase, no matter if it's five, ten, twenty, or even more years down the road. And one thing is for sure: the memories of teachers never fade. I, too, will never forget the memories of my literature teacher from my old high school.

It’s likely that one day, some of us will reach the peak of fame, while others will remain humble, working with chalk on the blackboard, or perhaps find satisfaction in the simplicity of everyday life. But what is certain is that the memories of our teachers will always remain with us, even if time dulls the edges.

The memory of Mr. Hào, our literature teacher, is one I will never forget. He ignited a passion for literature within us, a subject often seen as difficult. He taught us to write essays with genuine emotion. He often said, “Teaching literature is teaching how to be human,” and over time, I came to deeply understand his words. His lessons taught me to appreciate life, love those around me more, and to never give up on my dreams.

One unforgettable memory I have of Mr. Hào was when I failed to prepare for an upcoming test. Naturally, I scored poorly—only 3 points. This result, a consequence of my neglecting my studies in favor of play, made me feel even more disillusioned with the subject. Mr. Hào noticed my growing disinterest during his lessons, and yet, he patiently continued to guide me. Though he occasionally referenced the previous test’s poor results in class, he never singled me out. I felt deeply ashamed and apologized to him, vowing to do better in the future.

From that moment on, I worked harder during his lessons and gradually began to improve. Even when I moved on to high school, his lessons continued to resonate with me, reminding me to strive for excellence.

Our gym teacher graduated with a degree in Physical Education and has been teaching at our school for about ten years. In the past, he was a volleyball player, which is why our school has a strong focus on volleyball. I can't really compare the salary of a PE teacher with that of a regular subject teacher, but every morning, he wakes up early to help his wife deliver vegetables and fruits to the market, and once he's done, he heads to school to teach. I always saw him arriving early, diligently coaching the volleyball team. After teaching, he would rush to the market to help his wife, carrying heavy items back home. Despite working tirelessly, life was still difficult for him. He fought for his daily bread while raising his children. Sometimes, I thought about how hard his life was, especially since his daughter, also my friend, was diagnosed with a brain disease. I don't know when she started having health issues, but during our final year of middle school, she was completely fine – healthy and hardworking. However, after a high fever, she was hospitalized, and that marked the beginning of our teacher's difficult days. After his PE lessons, he would rush to the hospital to care for his daughter, all while juggling his work at the market. Over the three years of high school, I watched him struggle with life, doing everything to support his daughter’s treatment and bring in extra income for the family. I often doubted my own ability to endure hardship, as I was prone to running away from challenges. Yet, he showed me that he would never give up on saving his daughter or his family, no matter how exhausted he felt. He chose never to quit when it came to the people he loved. Life can sometimes be more cruel than we perceive it. At the end of our senior year, my friend passed away, and our teacher became quieter, yet still passionate. Every morning, he would train the volleyball team, and in his eyes, the flame of love for his job and his students never dimmed. After that, I learned that one of his volleyball team members had started using drugs. Interestingly, that student never skipped PE class, always arriving on time and playing well. One day, I returned late from a student meeting and saw our teacher with the volleyball team still practicing. From the student office, I overheard him speaking to the team, his voice heavy with concern and sorrow, as if he were struggling to find the right words. I faintly heard him crying as he spoke loudly to the team: 'I’ve been teaching for many years, and I’ve seen each class grow up. I appreciate all of you who visit me during holidays, thank you for noticing when my gym shoes are worn out and buying me a new pair. I am grateful that you respect PE, a subject that isn’t seen as crucial for graduation exams. I’m thankful that none of you skip my classes, but because of that, I feel responsible. I’ve seen how close we are, yet some of you are falling into the trap of drugs. I feel like I failed to save you. Life is limited, and you must use it wisely. I want you all to train hard, to be healthy for your exams, and to be strong enough to resist the poison destroying your lives. I hope you understand me!' That night, I reflected on the saying, 'Only time reveals the true nature of people.' Each year brings new teachers, but over the three years of high school, our volleyball team had only one coach. We loved and respected him, and I realized the strength of our bond. As I looked up at the starry sky that night, I whispered to my friend, 'As Kiều said, our coach is both a great father and a true teacher.' Time has passed, and our PE teacher still goes to school every day, helping his wife at the market, while the volleyball team continues to play well, even if not in first place. Some students who once used drugs have now quit, thanks to his words and his tears. Life moves on, and with November coming, the month of teachers, I can’t help but remember the amazing PE teacher who made such a difference in our lives. It’s true, we all have beautiful memories of our teachers, whether it's the teacher of literature, math, or PE.

Memories, much like piano keys, produce sounds when touched. But not every note is perfect; some are pleasant, while others are not, some we wish to hold on to, and others we prefer to erase. For me, the most memorable part of school life is the memories with my teacher.

The teacher raised an eyebrow, glanced at the watch on her wrist, and then stared out the classroom window. The long hallway outside was quiet, waiting, listening for the rhythmic sound of footsteps to guess: was it the teacher or the new instructor? Today's math class in grade 8/1 had a substitute teacher. The former teacher had taken maternity leave, and the discipline officer announced a new teacher would take over. Fifteen minutes quickly passed, and the students grew impatient. At the back of the class, someone began humming: 'Fifteen minutes past, longing for math, feeling sad like a fish... swimming into the pot...'

- Silence!

The class president's voice echoed, firm and commanding (thanks to his size). The discipline officer appeared. Almost a hundred curious eyes turned towards the door. Behind the officer, a strange figure appeared – could it be the new math teacher? But wait... he looked too much like a student!

The officer smiled brightly:

- Let me introduce, this is Mr. T, who will be teaching math for class 8/1 in place of Mrs. N...

A round of applause erupted, perhaps in admiration? Mr. T smiled and nodded gently, 'Hello, students!' Oh my, his cheeks were as red as firecrackers, and his glasses almost slipped off his nose. Perhaps he was touched by the warm welcome from a class with many students, some even being the prettiest in school.

Before leaving, the officer kindly reminded:

- Be sure to study well. And remember, don't make trouble for the teacher!

Ah! That warning was not without reason. The girls of 8/1, although bright, well-behaved, and talented, had a knack for mischief! Teachers loved them, but often found themselves in difficult situations. I'm not sure if Mr. T had 'researched' the students' backgrounds before coming in, but it was clear he seemed both calm and slightly nervous.

After a rather 'smooth' introduction - Mr. T, a final-year student from the University of Natural Sciences, spoke in a manner that was almost effeminate. He cheerfully decided to check the previous lesson. Forty-plus students groaned in unison, but their complaints did not change Mr. T's 'iron-willed' decision. He grabbed the gradebook and searched for names (why didn’t he just look at the seating chart?!). After a long search, his hands trembling (probably from the students' intense gaze), he announced a name:

- Tran Thi L.N.

The entire class went quiet as N. walked towards the front. After two minutes, the class burst into laughter – N. was tall, about 1.65 meters, a basketball player with a seniority of two years, making her the 'elder' compared to the rest of the class. Meanwhile, Mr. T, short and slender, barely 1.60 meters (including the thick soles of his shoes). The contrast was quite humorous. Mr. T froze, his face turning as red as a lobster, quickly asking a few obligatory questions before 'inviting' N. back to her seat. The gradebook was quickly closed, and the lesson started again.

The awkward start passed quickly, and everything turned into a memory. That memory began with the naive enthusiasm from both teacher and students as they formed a 'partnership' for math lessons.

I remember one time, Mr. T promised to build a model for a difficult geometry problem, to help the students visualize it better. But twice, three times, he kept forgetting. Once he was busy with his own studies, another time he was preparing for other lessons, and another time, he built the model but left it behind in Ninh Hoa! The last time, he remembered to bring it, but the bus was so crowded that the model was damaged! The students didn’t believe it. They demanded that Mr. T build the model right in class. Mr. T, flustered, 'mobilized' the rulers and called the students in the front rows (including a sweet girl) to help him build the model. Oh my! Seven or eight heads, more than a dozen small hands, and Mr. T standing around the table – how could anyone see anything? So, Mr. T had the students line up, row by row, to 'view the model' like 'helicopters flying over the flowers.' It was so much fun, and it was peaceful. Neither the teacher nor the students saw the naïveté in their actions, and considered it a 'miracle' of intelligence.

But things weren’t always peaceful. There was also a time when Mr. T got so angry that he yelled loudly, like 'Zhang Fei,' because of the students’ mischief. It made the students tear up. Then, unexpectedly, Mr. T softened like a 'late autumn sunshine' and asked in a gentle tone:

- Why have you all suddenly become so well-behaved?

Yes, that’s Mr. T – someone who couldn’t stay angry for long, someone who forgave easily and quickly joined in the fun. He was like a leaf that accidentally fell into the rippling waters of student life, creating a small wave and then being carried away by the wind… Mr. T may not have been the best teacher, and his lessons may not have been the most engaging. We knew that, but as students, we didn’t complain. We simply accepted it as part of our precious memories of youthful innocence. Mr. T was always full of enthusiasm (even though the more he tried to explain, the more confused we became!). For Mr. T, all of us, with our innocent faces sitting at the wooden desks, were equal, just 'students' to be explored and remembered. He didn’t care about titles or wealth, just the simple joys of being with his students.

If anyone had asked the class of 8/1 back then to pick the strangest character in school, I’m sure everyone would have unanimously voted for Mr. T, our math teacher.

Who says students today are different from those in the past? Not really – they are quite similar (if you look from the right perspective!). They still collect memories, formed from fragments of broken glass (even if they aren’t perfect), through the years of their youthful lives, which we call... 'The third thing... fame.'