The Lasting Imprints of Room 18: Reflections from a Loft Wall

-Will Fetters

 

As a teacher, I’ve always believed that education is more than imparting knowledge. It’s about connection, tradition, and creating a space where students feel seen, valued, and part of something bigger than themselves. For many years, I had the privilege of teaching in a classroom where a simple tradition became one of the most meaningful legacies of my career—a tradition I now reflect on with immense gratitude and joy.

At the heart of Room 18 at Hubbard Woods School was a loft—not just a functional space but a place where countless memories were made. Each year, my students climbed the steps of that loft, palms freshly dipped in vibrant paint, and pressed their handprints onto the wall. This act was more than an art project; it was a rite of passage, a moment of celebration, and a tangible reminder of their presence in our shared learning journey.

The Nameplate Outside My Classroom Door In 2010

After their handprints dried, each student would take a Sharpie and carefully print their name below their mark. For some, it was a moment of pride; for others, a quiet, reflective gesture. But for all of them, it was a connection to the students who came before them—and the siblings, friends, and classmates who would follow. Over the years, the wall became a colorful tapestry of young lives, each handprint telling a story of growth, laughter, and learning.

When I transitioned from the classroom to the library, I knew the loft would no longer be mine. There was a bittersweet inevitability that the handprints might be painted over, those memories wiped away for a fresh start. So, I did what any sentimental educator would do: I took photographs—every single handprint, every single name. Among those handprints were my own two children’s—an extra-special touchstone for me as a teacher and parent.

Nine years ago, the importance of those photographs became achingly clear when I learned of the sudden, tragic passing of a former student. In the whirlwind of grief that followed, I turned to those photos and found his handprints—his crooked, scrawling name below them, bringing his gentle spirit flooding back to me. I sat with those memories for a long time, eventually sending the image to his mother. Along with the photo, I shared stories of her son: his kindness, curiosity, and how he brightened Room 18.

Grief doesn’t follow a neat timeline or fit into polite responses, and as educators, we don’t always see the ripples of the kindness we extend. But that doesn’t make those gestures any less important. Sending that photo reminded me of the human connections we nurture through teaching—how we become part of our students’ stories just as they become part of ours.

Looking back, I realize how deeply those handprints shaped me, too. Each year, they reminded me why I chose this profession. They reminded me of the privilege of being entrusted with these young lives, guiding them through curriculum and moments of discovery, resilience, and joy.

Even now, as I flip through those photographs, I feel the weight of those memories—the laughter, the energy, the endless possibilities each child carried. Those handprints remind me of the ways we shape one another. They remind me of the beauty of teaching and the profound impact of human connection.

Room 18’s loft wall handprints may no longer exist in the physical sense, but in my heart—and, I hope, in the hearts of those who passed through—they will always stand as a testament to the indelible mark we leave on one another.

To my fellow educators: Never underestimate the significance of these small traditions. They are the threads that weave together the fabric of a meaningful teaching career. And long after the paint has dried and the walls have changed, the memories will endure.

Here’s to the handprints—and the lasting imprints they leave on us all.