My high school journalism teacher (Mr. H.) was diagnosed with terminal, inoperable lung cancer and given 6 months to live just before I began my freshman year of high school. But he responded astonishingly well to treatment, although chemo destroyed his quality of life. Even when he was undergoing intensive treatment, Mr. H. would leave the infusion center and come straight to the school to teach his students to conduct interviews, write articles, shoot photos, etc. During our monthly deadline weeks, he supervised the newspaper staff sometimes 12 hours a day through the weekend to make sure we turned out a product we could be proud of.

Mr. H. was my journalism instructor for all 4 years of high school during which time he taught me about everything from typography to questioning/respecting authority as appropriate. His class was the only reason I bothered to go to school. I'd never felt more honored than before graduating, when he pulled strings to get me into a journalism student honor society (despite my poor grades in other classes that technically disqualified me), and post-graduation when he asked me help his new students learn to use their cameras and computers.

He died in November of my freshman year of college. The last time I saw him was a couple weeks before, when I gave him a photo-collage print I made for him using every photo that ran in the newspaper during my time on staff. His funeral was standing-room-only in my town's biggest church. In the 4 years since Mr. H. died I haven't gone a day without thinking about him, wondering if he'd approve of where I'm going with my life. I know I'll die happy if I can ever make the kind of impact on just one or two people that Mr. H. made on hundreds of students like me during his many years as an educator.