I heard about the death of Marty Scott on April 1. Because I had creative writing nonfiction with him at noon that day, I thought it was a mean April Fools joke.

As soon as his death was confirmed, I was in shock. An unspoken agreement between Marty and I was broken that day.

When it was time to go to his class, I couldn’t make it. Every time I took a step closer to the door, I broke into tears.

I never did make it to class that day.

We had been working on our essays for awhile, and I had written mine about a very personal issue in my life that was dominating my thoughts at the time.

When I had my conference with Marty, he not only gave me advice about my writing and composition but also advice regarding my situation, which he related his own experiences. Our session made me feel closer to him than I had ever felt to any teacher in my entire academic career.

After reading my essay in class and getting suggestions from my classmates, I kept the paper weeks after it was due to add details and scenarios as they came to mind.

I was genuinely interested in what Marty would have to say about all the new scenes I had added.

Marty normally suggested we turn in our final drafts one week after we workshopped them in class, though it rarely happened that way. He never complained about that though. The class was unstructured with no real deadlines but it seemed to work, and students loved coming to class.

When my essay was as close to perfect as I thought it could be, I decided it was time to let Marty see it.

On Wednesday, I turned in my proudest work to a man I knew would have great insight to what I had to say. He died on Thursday evening, never having read the final draft.

The unspoken agreement that was broken that day was the bond that kids form with their teachers from an early age. It’s the pedestal some people put their educators on. It’s the immense respect I had for a great man and a great writer.

The way I viewed my teachers changed suddenly – within moments of hearing the news.

From an early age, children expect that their teachers will be around to answer any questions that may arise. As a college student, I have grown to expect that no matter how many classes I miss or show up late to, my professors will always be on time and be there when I need them.

But Marty wasn’t there when I needed him; when I wished more than anything for him to read the paper I had worked so hard on to make him proud.

What I hadn’t fully realized was that Marty was more than a teacher. He was a role model, an inspiring writer, an adviser and a friend.

He played in a band called The Rural Kings, and he frequently hung out at Friends and Co. Some students were really close to him and I wish I had been closer.

While I can’t help but think of our unfinished business, I also mourn the loss of a wonderful man whose influence inspired me to love writing and to not take shit from anyone.

Even in death, Marty Scott taught me an important lesson.

Teachers are people too, with their own flaws and problems, even if all we see is the person who corrects our grammar.