As a senior in High School, I have had many, many, many teachers. A lot I liked, and more that I didn’t. High school memories are some of the best memories that anybody will have, and the teachers are a huge impact on these memories that will last a lifetime. Coaches are parent-figures, and academic teachers are motivators and inspirations. In my life I have had both, one more than the other, and I am grateful for the people in my life, especially my sophomore Academic English teacher, Mr, DiGiuseppe. This man was not only my teacher, but a parent-figure and a friend. He not only cared about my grades even though I got an A every marking period in his class, but he also cared about my life at home, and I was appreciative of that.

Last year, May 11, 2015, I got into a near-death experience with a few friends, driving home from Seaside at twelve AM, 10 minutes away from home. I was driving my friend’s dad’s car home, radio low trying to listen to the GPS, fog lying on the road, pitch black with no street lights, nothing but trees around me, no other cars in sight, friends passed out in the shotgun and back seat, quiet as a mouse, exhausted. I had no idea where I was, later realizing that I was so close to home. Slowly falling asleep, I dozed off for a half second, and swerved back into my lane. Half awake and focused back on what I was doing, driving, and it seemed liked 5 minutes later that I was grill first heading towards a tree, being only a second after I dozed off the first time, with the noise of the branches rubbing against the windows of the car, waking me up. Panicking my foot slammed the gas, immediately braking, and watched the tree crushed the front of the car, my friend’s dad’s car. Broke the window to get out of the car, and stopped someone who was conveniently driving by. Luckily we were going extremely slow, because my back didn’t leave the seat, airbags didn’t go off, and I was and the police officer’s words, six inches away from the electric line on the telephone pole. Lucky was an understatement.

Don’t know still how to this day I lived with what happened that night, and how I was able to take in the hatred from my parents, the grounded prison I was in for the next five months, and for the following weeks after that thinking about nothing but that night, and how I could be dead right now.

I retold this story one hundred plus times, but the one time it meant something was telling it to my teacher, Mr. DiGiusseppe. My mom knows him because we donate donuts to his charity once a year at the school. My mom emailed him to talk to me about the situation, because I really needed someone to talk to other than family and friends. He pulled me out of class, and brought me to the auditorium, and we nonstop talked for forty eight minutes. He helped me vent, gave me advice that I would never get from other teachers, because he meant what he said. He said to my mom that I am “one of the most mature teenagers he has ever met” and that could not have been more needed at that point and time with the degenerate and irresponsible actions that I took. He asked me personal questions to see my standpoint on the relationship between my parents and I, joking around a little to keep the mood up, and giving me advice and telling me that I am better than that.