Marion Washington says those words quietly, almost like a confession. He's a senior now—class of 2026—and though he jokes about being "ready to get out of here," there's a steadiness to him that feels older than his years. His teacher, Ethan May, listens and nods. "That's exactly right," he says softly.

Ethan teaches high school English at Joppa-Maple Grove—year twelve of his teaching career, year six here at Joppa. This fall, his class of seventeen students did something extraordinary. After reading Night by Elie Wiesel—a haunting memoir of the Holocaust—he reached out to the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C. "I thought, there's no way we'll hear back," he says. "We're a little town down here in southern Illinois." But within days, he did. The museum arranged for his class to meet virtually with Holocaust survivor Louise Lawrence-Israëls.

"When Mr. May told us, I was like, 'Okay, yeah, pick me,'" Marion says. "I've always loved history—ancient Egypt, mythology, anything."

That curiosity runs deep. Marion keeps notebooks filled with historical notes, poems, and sketches—like the one he shares during our conversation, a five-verse poem titled Echoes of Denial, illustrated with a delicate pencil drawing. His fascination with history isn't academic—it's personal. "History tells us what we try to forget," he says. "And I don't ever want to forget."

Ethan recalls how the idea began. "After finishing Night, the kids had all these questions—what happened afterward, how people rebuilt their lives. I realized they were hungry for more." He contacted the museum, never expecting a response. "But they scheduled it almost immediately."

By the time this story reaches readers, Marion and his classmates will have logged onto Zoom to hear Louise's story—her memories of the war, the loss, the survival, the humanity that persisted. For seventeen students in southern Illinois, history will have become more than words on a page.

For Ethan, making learning real is the goal. "We live in a place where people are kind, where they look out for one another," he says. "But it's also a place where it's easy to stay in our own lane. I want these students to see the bigger picture."

That commitment is personal. His mother and her whole family are from Joppa. "For me, it was coming back home," he says. He came from Marshall County High School in Kentucky—1,500 students in the building. "People ask why I chose to work here. And I tell them, it's almost like a private school feel. Everybody gets along so well, and the community is so supportive."

Marion knows that difference, too. Born and raised in Indianapolis—a city of 800,000—he first came to Joppa in late 2020 during COVID, then went back and forth before settling here. "I've been in schools with 4,500 students," he says. "Here, there's about 400. It's smaller, but that's the best part."

He pauses, searching for the right words. "It's like being in an open field instead of a closed room with a hundred people. Your mind is free to think what it wants."

His journey hasn't been without challenges. At ten years old, he was diagnosed with a brain disease, which forced him to give up sports after six years. "I felt like, well, if I don't do any extracurricular activities, there'll be less chance for me to die or hurt my family. So I decided to pick up the pencil."

Writing became both refuge and release. "I'm always busy doing something. Writing or drawing." He pulls out another notebook. "I just did like half that notebook of nothing but mythology; every mythology to exist. I love languages, all kinds of languages."

That sense of purpose extends to his future. He's applying to SIUE, SIUC, and Murray State. "I can go to SIUE with a Meridian scholarship if I can maintain a 3.5 GPA," he explains. After earning his bachelor's degree, he plans to join the U.S. Marine Corps as an officer.

Ethan beams with pride. "He's the kind of student who makes teaching worthwhile. You're constantly on—if I water it down or back off a little bit, I cheat them out of the opportunity for something great."

Their conversation drifts back to history—the cycles of memory and forgetting. "I think people forget because it's uncomfortable," Ethan says. "But discomfort is where we learn."

Marion nods. "That's why I want to remember. Because when you forget, it happens again."

In that small classroom in Joppa—currently decorated as a haunted house for the season—something extraordinary is happening: not just a lesson in history, but a living demonstration of what education can be when curiosity meets courage, and when a teacher believes enough to reach across the digital miles to bring the world to seventeen rural students.

"We might be small," Ethan says, "but I would put our crew up against any crew."

 rion Washington says those words quietly, almost like a confession. He's a senior now—class of 2026—and though he jokes about being "ready to get out of here," there's a steadiness to him that feels older than his years. His teacher, Ethan May, listens and nods. "That's exactly right," he says softly.

For Marion, what he'll carry forward is clear. It's a pencil, a poem, and a commitment—to remember what others try to forget.