I taught for thirty-three years, everything from preschool to seniors in high school. When I worked with younger students, I often had close to forty students in a class. It might take me a few days to learn everyone’s name, but after that, I never made a mistake when calling on someone.

At times my high school classes were packed with thirty-four! I usually taught four sections per day; two AP ninth graders and two Resource Students. Thankfully my special education sections were smaller, perhaps ten or twelve.

That meant learning approximately eighty-eight names within the first week of school.

Now add in all the years I taught, and the numbers are in the hundreds.

When my own children were young, I coached soccer teams and volunteered as scorekeeper for baseball. Then there was swim team, with over 100 swimmers each summer.

One strategy I used to learn students’ names was to make a seating chart. I didn’t assign seats, but once students had settled, I didn’t let them move for at least one week.

The younger kids were cute, at that age, and then they’d move on, to be replaced by another thirty-four or more. I’d see former students out on the playground, a constant refresher, helping me recall names and personalities.

After they moved on to higher grades, I seldom interacted with them.

Years later I’d run into them shopping at the mall or grocery. Or maybe at a high school swim meet, or while out on a walk.

They always recognized me.

“Mrs. Connelly, how are you doing?”

“Do I know you?” I’d wonder silently as I tried to decipher where or when I had met the child, or now, adult.

While my mind ran through the various possibilities, I attempted to appear poised and confident in my knowledge of who they were. I’d engage in nondescript conversation, hoping they’d drop in a clue to help me recall their names.

It was with great relief when they’d say, “You were my favorite teacher,” or even better, “You taught me how to ….”

The most difficult to sort were kids I’d had in my preschool classes, or, as I moved up in grades, in third grade.

Those cute little baby-faces and tiny bodies now stood before me as teenagers, sometimes sporting facial hair. They resembled the adults they would soon become.

How badly I wanted to ask, “Do I know you?”

Instead I’d smile, nod, and look for an escape, a way to gracefully bow out of the uncomfortable situation.