Dear Mr. Ali,

Mark, last night when I saw Maria’s tribute post to you, with pictures of her senior English class, saying that she was dedicating this teaching year to you, I didn’t want to believe it. Then I saw Nicole’s tribute post. Then Colleen private messaged me. I posted on social media, but thought still, maybe it wasn’t true, because it just couldn’t be true, because we had just been exchanging e-mails about your bringing your students down for a campus tour of my university.

But it’s true.

You’re gone from this earth.

I couldn’t sleep last night. I cried last night before bed. I cried this morning when I woke up. I am crying now as I write this.

My friend, I just don’t understand.

You were the best of people. Your kindness and humility belied your deep passion and commitment to our students. When I left South Hayward to take my academic position in Southern California, I did so knowing our students were in good hands because I knew they had you. I treasured our time together in writing group. Writing was a way for me to hear your powerful voice, and to learn from you because you were so deeply private in your spoken words. You had so much wisdom and you were so thoughtful about every word you gave us, so that every word made an impact.

I see the kids’ (I know they’re grown, but they will always be kids to me) posts about how you told them to make “quiet good trouble.” You knew how to make tidal waves that no one saw coming, to navigate systems to do right by students, to move through systems not made for you, for us, for them, and to pass that knowledge along. You were always seeking to grow and to give. I never heard you say a negative thing about another person. Systems, institutions, things that needed to change, yes. But people, no.

You had a way of seeing people and of making people feel seen and heard. You were not just in the community, you were of the community. Your own children alongside other students found comfort and challenge in your classroom. You pushed us all to be our best without ever being pushy, just by being you.

I reread your last e-mail to me, in mid-March, about the probably canceled Southern California college tour. I keep searching for pictures that I know I must have of the last campus tour that we had together. I can’t find them. I know we took a picture and I can’t find it. I know I don’t need the pictures because I will never forget you, but I wish I had them because they would make me feel like you weren’t gone.

I grieve for your family, for our community and for our profession. When I spoke at a webinar earlier this summer about the power of Black male teachers, I thought of you, and how much it meant that our students had you as an English teacher. Your presence, in so many ways, guided them. Who you were mattered — as a person, a father, a teacher, a writer.

You are someone that I have admired for the last 13 years since we first met. You are the best of people. You are someone I will always consider a partner and friend in this work. I will carry you with me for as long as I live and I love you deeply.

Thank you for your light, my friend. Thank you for being such a gift to all of us.

I hope that you are at peace knowing that your powerful legacy is left to us.

We will do our best to carry that legacy forward in love.

But today, we grieve.

In deep love and gratitude,

Betina (aka Dr. Hsieh)