“My Thomas,
This journey, which we embarked on together, I hope and wish brings you to your own Ithaka. I know that, if it exists, you will find it.
Your teacher,
Ms. Micha”
This was the message left for me in my yearbook at the end of my freshman year, left by none other than my Greek Studies teacher. Her reference to “Ithaka” alludes back to The Odyssey, one of the legendary Homeric Epics which we had covered in her class. In it, Odysseus sets sail across the Aegean and Ionian Seas in hopes of returning to his homeland, namely the island of Ithaka.
After concluding our time with The Odyssey, Ms. Micha posed a question: “What is your own Ithaka?”
Being met with around a dozen confused faces, she went on to explain the question further. Throughout The Odyssey, Odysseus’ one and only goal was to return home to Ithaka. It was more than just a destination for him; to him, Ithaka represented a sense of belonging. It made sense, then, why Odysseus fought tooth and nail throughout his journey, losing dear friends in the process, to get back to the island. That sense of belonging wasn’t something that could be replaced.
After this explanation, however, I still couldn’t conjure up an answer. How was I supposed to know where I “belonged”?
As if she could read my mind, Ms. Micha quickly took it upon herself to help me figure out the answer to that question. Throughout the next year, she would push me more than any other teacher had - both in Greek class, and as a person. Over time, she began to peel back the protective layers in which I had encased myself in for my whole life. Slowly but surely, I felt that she got to know the real me, at times before even I did. As the months went by, she would say, “I have plans for you.” Those plans would come to fruition during the summer of 2023.
Every year, our school offered a three-week-long trip to Greece as part of a summer study abroad program. Again, in her laconic ways, Ms. Micha approached me and simply said, “You are going to apply to this program.” The prospect of being on my own in a foreign country at only sixteen years old was scary, but her confidence in me was inspiration enough for me to send off my application.
And I got in.
The moment I stepped foot in Greece was the moment I found my Ithaka. Unburdened by the desire to “fit in” alongside my American peers, I dared to be the most authentic version of myself in Greece. In only three weeks, I made some of the most deep, profound friendships I have ever had in my life, and learned so much about myself as a person. I learned that I was proud of my identity as a queer teenager. I learned that I don’t have to accept shallow, hollow relationships. I learned that people like me for the person I am, not the person I pretend to be.
My Ithaka is in people. The connections I have with others, no matter the language they speak, are some of the most treasured things in my life. Because of this, and the love of languages Ms. Micha fostered in me, I hope to earn a master’s degree in linguistics to bridge language and cultural gaps through interpretation and translation. I hope, one day, I can use my education to help others find their own Ithaka, just like Ms. Micha did for me.
“21/22 History MVP. Don’t stop fighting and don’t stop believing. You can make the world a better place.” This note was a parting gift from someone who changed my life. Mr. Tom Sheppard, my 10th grade US history teacher, showed me how to combine my passions and talents in order to have an impactful future.
Every year in school we learn about World War II, but somehow, after 11 years, I learned of something that no one had mentioned to me: Japanese incarceration camps. I starred that term in my notes and went up to Mr. Sheppard after class to understand why this wasn’t taught in any other history classroom, and why they were in his. He told me the Japanese incarceration camps aren't part of the history curriculum, but that was why he thought they were so important to teach. He believed that the parts of history that were omitted were just as important as the parts that are included.
This conversation sat in the back of my mind for months, nagging. What other significant historical events are obscured, and why? And so I approached Mr. Sheppard with the idea for an independent study: I will go out and find times in American history that are hidden or censored and uncover them. The independent study form at my high school hadn’t been touched in so many years that my counselor had to dig through a dusty box to find it, but I was beyond grateful that I had access to an opportunity like this one. I talked with nearly every history teacher in school to see if they had any ideas, and I landed on four: the Salem witch trials, the Japanese incarceration camps, integration in the South, and the AIDS epidemic.
While many of my peers sought out every advanced class our high school offered, I was here: digging through books that hadn’t been checked out of the collegiate library in our town since the seventies, consuming every piece of information that I could get my hands on. In developing and carrying out the independent study, I learned two things. I learned that I can take my education into my own hands and that the stories of individuals are my passion. Because what is history if not a shattered mosaic of individuals, and how can it be complete if so many pieces are missing? Once I had this epiphany, I realized that I can be the one to make sure that pieces aren’t missing, and this led me to curriculum development. The only way to ensure that Japanese incarceration camps and the AIDS epidemic and the Salem Witch Trials and the Tuskegee study and so much more aren’t forgotten is to make sure they are taught to our kids. Education is our most powerful tool for a better future, so let’s make sure they are getting the whole picture.
Mr. Sheppard helped me fill a gap in that mosaic so that I can do it for others; to ensure equity in history classrooms around the country; to make sure everyone sees themselves in their lessons; to make sure every voice is heard. Ever since then, I have learned so much and connected with so many people, and it all ties back to one winter morning when a man widened my perspective.
