I was sixteen years old, sitting in the middle row of Mrs. Sharon Strandberg’s 11th-grade English class at Sanger High School, when I first understood that a simple gesture could change a life.

Mrs. Strandberg had a talent, almost a gift, for reaching students who didn’t always see their own potential. She had a way of looking past the distractions, the lack of focus, the bravado, and even the quiet resignation some of us carried. She didn’t just teach English; she taught people, and she did it with kindness, intention, and a bit of mystery.

Every once in a while, she would call a student to the front of the classroom to give them what she called an “award,” though it was never a trophy, a certificate, or anything you could place on a shelf. Instead, it was usually some odd little object that you’d never expect, and always delivered with a message she hoped you’d hear, even if it took years to understand it.

Back then, I was a kid shaped by a challenging neighborhood, a place where older boys set examples that could easily steer you in the wrong direction. I was drifting toward behaviors that weren’t healthy, and I didn’t always see another path. But I was fortunate. Some teachers took it upon themselves to intervene, to guide me differently, to believe in me before I believed in myself. Among them, Mrs. Sharon Strandberg was another teacher that shined the brightest.

One day, she called my name.

The room fell quiet as it always did when she chose a student for one of her “symbols of reflection.” My stomach tightened. No one wanted to make that slow walk to the front, but everyone knew you had to.

I stood there awkwardly as she reached behind her desk, rustling around until she pulled out a plain brown paper bag, the kind you use to pack a lunch or carry groceries. She held it out gently, almost ceremonially, and said:

“Johnny, I present this brown paper bag to you because I know someday you will be helping people cross the street carrying their grocery bags.”

The class chuckled softly. I didn’t know whether to laugh, smirk, or shrug. And because I was who I was then, trying too hard to act unbothered, or too cool to care, I took that bag back to my desk, crumpled it up, and tossed it into the trash as class ended and I exited the classroom.

I wish I hadn’t.

Forty-three years later, I wish more than anything that I had kept it. Because although the bag ended up in the garbage, the message never did. What she saw in me that day, something I couldn’t yet see in myself, stayed with me. That act shaped my choices, guided my steps, and lighted a path I didn’t even know I wanted to follow.

She saw a helper.

She saw a protector.

She saw someone who would one day serve others.

And she was right.

Today, after 30 years as an educator and administrator, 16 years of working across the country helping schools strengthen student-teacher relationships, and now in my candidacy to become the Fresno County Superintendent of Schools, I know exactly what she meant.

Over the years, I’ve come to understand Mrs. Strandberg as the embodiment of what makes the best educators truly great. Teachers have a choice: treat students like human doers or human beings.

Human doers earn praise only when they behave, turn in homework, or score well on tests.

Human beings are acknowledged simply because they matter.

The moments that set exceptional teachers apart are the small, genuine connections asking students how they’re doing, noticing when they seem tired or troubled, complimenting a new haircut, asking about their family, or handing them a brown paper bag and telling them they will someday help a stranger cross the street. These are the acts that make students feel seen, valued, and human.

That was Mrs. Sharon Strandberg. She made us feel seen, valued, and understood in a world that often didn’t slow down long enough to notice us.

She passed away at just 40 years old. I never had the chance to thank her in person for what she did for me. But I thank her every day in the way I show up for others, in the way I lead, and in the way I continue her practice of genuine human connection.

Her gesture was simple. Her impact was profound. Her message became my life’s compass.

And though the brown paper bag is long gone, the lesson it carried has never left my hands or my heart.

Educators are sacrosanct, Educators change lives, Educators are valuable, Educators are needed.  Thank you for all you do for our students!