Margins of Influence*

On the first day of our senior year, word of a hot new English teacher spread through the halls of my all-girls school like the wildfire that it was. When my best friend and I hovered outside our journalism class, trying to get a peek at our new teacher, Lynn ** nearly spit out the Hawaiian Punch she'd carried over from our lunch period when we spotted him. There was no way this 23-year-old Paul Rudd look-alike was our teacher.

Said teacher stood aware of the commotion he was causing and beckoned us in from the hallway. And with that, he absolutely changed the trajectory of my life.

Derek Langley. Twenty-three years old and assigned to our high school through a teacher training program with a local university. The universe crafted a ruse in our favor, placing him at the only all-girls public high school in the country. It was as if the collective energy of hundreds of teenage girls had manifested him from their very dreams.

Okay, enough about looks.

He was the first adult in my life to tell me I was smart. While such direct labels are frowned upon now, then it was a necessary boost for a teenager who was consistently put down by her father and existed in the shadow of a younger brother who was "the smart one." Mr. Langley’s praise was like warm sunlight for a plant that had long been withering in the shade. I can’t even remember if he ever said it outright—it was understood. A baseline level of communication. It was evident in the feedback written in the margins of a paper he graded or a raised eyebrow during a class discussion that signaled, Celeste, I know you get this.

He gave us assignments that were legitimately challenging—like writing an essay without any form of the verb “be.” I worked at it like someone would a math theorem, tinkering and editing for days, unlocking my own creativity through the guardrails of limitation.

Taking both the journalism class and as members of the journalism club, Langley was stuck with Lynn and me. Though I don’t think he disliked it entirely. We grew on him, as teenage girls' boundless enthusiasm to exist in his presence could undoubtedly appeal to his ego. I know we were his favorite students.

Over that year, Mr. Langley became more than just a teacher; he was the first person to see me beyond the labels and expectations others had placed on me. He gave me the space to be curious, to challenge myself, and to embrace my intellect. The essay challenges, the quiet nods of approval, the red ink that told me, You are capable—all of it reshaped how I saw myself.

A few years ago, I met a friend for dinner in Northeast Baltimore—at a place I love to eat but wouldn’t normally visit on a Friday night. Sipping a beer at the bar, waiting for our dinner table, I looked up and saw him. I was shocked, not just because he was standing in front of me after so many years, but because I wondered, Didn’t he have better places to spend his time than in this dive bar?

It was as if no time had passed at all; we caught up like old friends. I told him I was working at a housing nonprofit in DC, and it turns out he, too, was making the daily commute on the MARC train but, in true Langley fashion, for a much more impressive cause—working for NASA. Yes, that NASA. He wasn’t just a rocket scientist—he managed them.

We exchanged updates about our families and what my old friend Lynn was up to. I couldn’t tell him much about my other classmates because, as is so often the case after graduation day, I hadn’t kept up with many of them.

Before I knew it, my friend and I were beckoned off to our table by the server, swept into the current of a crowded restaurant during the Friday rush. Before I could make it back to the bar to say a proper goodbye, he’d already left, and when our bill arrived, it turned out he had already paid it.

There’s so much I didn’t get a chance to tell him, like the fact that I’d garnered millions of dollars for education projects in Baltimore through my grant writing—the powers of persuasive writing that he taught me. That the only reason I had any semblance of intellectual self-regard was because of his influence in my senior year. That the reason I work in the educational equity space today was because of his impact and the belief that every young person deserves a Mr. Langley in their corner.

Just this week, I went back to my high school to visit a teacher who’s been leading meaningful work with a group of fellow educators through an anti-poverty campaign. Not much had changed within the walls of the school—a few fresh coats of paint, and the drinking fountains, which once pumped us full of lead, had been replaced with new tiling and bulletin boards.

Her classroom was just across the hall from Langley’s old room. As I pulled up a chair beside her desk, I shared my story, not just as an alumna but as someone now dedicated to educational equity. I realized in that moment that I wasn’t just visiting my past—I was continuing the work he started.

Mr. Langley showed me the power of being seen, of being challenged to rise to my potential. It’s because of his influence that I’ve spent my career empowering young people and advocating for their right to an education that recognizes their brilliance. I’ve helped secure millions in funding for Baltimore schools, driven by the same belief he instilled in me: that every student deserves someone who believes in them as much as he believed in me.

Derek Langley didn’t just teach me how to write; he taught me how to see potential—in myself, and now in others. My aim is to leave things a little better than I found them, just as he did for me. And I hope that, years from now, some young person might look back and remember the teacher, the mentor, who helped them find their own voice.

*I’ve edited this essay more times than I’ll care to admit. Each time I think I’ve completed it, his feedback appears in the margins. It’s the gift he keeps on giving me—an orientation to critical feedback that fostered a drive and creative energy for continuous improvement—both on the page and off.

**Names have been changed to protect privacy