The last couple of months have been tough for public education in my home state of Kansas. Today, the Committee on Judiciary in Kansas’s House of Representatives is in the process of considering a bill that would make it easier to criminally prosecute teachers who expose students to material which could be considered “harmful” by the “average adult person.” This atrocious restriction on free speech has already passed Kansas’s Senate. A few days ago, Governor Brownback signed a bill into law that will provide block grants to school districts based on their current level of funding for two years, giving lawmakers time to come up with a more viable system. The uncertainty inherent in such an interim measure is placing strain on many Kansas districts.

But I am not here to tell you about public education in Kansas. I am here to tell you about my education.

I was fortunate enough to attend Blue Valley North high school, located a few miles outside Kansas City. In some ways, high school was difficult for me. I’m an English major–at heart, I have always been an English major–but since I was trying to get into a competitive college, I spent most of my time on advanced math and science courses that took every ounce of diligence I could muster and then some. I remember long weekends spent in the library and existential crises over exams. These days I still spend my weekends in the library and have existential crises, now over my papers. I suppose some things never change.

Even though I was dedicating many, many hours to subjects that did not come easily to me, I loved high school. I loved it, mostly, because of the teachers. There were so many wonderful teachers, far too many to do justice to them all in a single essay. I’ll do my best to mention just a few of them. I remember Mr. Skiles, eternally dapper in his crisp collared shirts, making centuries-old European intrigues vivid and exciting. I remember the sunny tranquility of Mrs. Whitfield’s English classroom, how she’d sit on a stool to explain beautiful literary concepts and tell us funny stories. Across the hall was Mrs. Gilman’s journalism room, always well-stocked with snacks, where I conducted fascinating interviews and learned how to write under pressure. Speaking under pressure happened under the drily witty tutelage of Mr. Wood, my debate coach.

Then there was Mr. Koehler, my calculus and statistics teacher, who above all else respected hard work in his students and would explain and re-explain until even I understood the problems better. When I began to feel that the world was composed only of math and grades and college applications, I’d have a long chat with Mr. Baldwin, my Latin teacher, who made me fall in love with a dead language and reminded me why I care about literature. And pretty much every day, I had a long chat with Mrs. Buche, who taught gifted education and whose loyalty to her students has made her like family.

The efforts of these teachers prepared me extraordinarily well for Harvard. They also prepared me extraordinarily well for life. Their passion inspired me and their kindness supported me through all the trials and tribulations of those high school years. In fact, they are still supporting me. I visit North with pleasure every summer to catch up with my old teachers and get their advice. I always feel like I’m coming home.

Budgets matter. Public concerns about morality matter. Yet here in my Harvard dorm room at 3am on Sunday morning, I lie awake writing not about Kansas’s money or morals, but about its teachers. Because we could all use a reminder that teachers matter, too.