The story of our ARES group's performance during the winter storm spread through the local community. There was an article in the local newspaper with a picture of Gregory and the county's emergency manager. Suddenly, ham radio wasn't just some obscure hobby for old guys in their basements. People were curious.
Our local amateur radio club saw a surge in interest. The next club meeting was packed with new faces-people who had lost power and felt helpless, people who were impressed by what we had done, people who were just looking for a new technical challenge.
Gregory, seeing the opportunity, announced that the club would be holding a class for the Technician license, followed by an exam session in two months.
"But I can't teach it all myself," he said, looking around the room. "I'm going to need some help." His eyes landed on our little group. "I'm going to need some assistant instructors."
A few years ago, the idea of standing up in front of a room of strangers and teaching them anything would have been my worst nightmare. But things were different now. The thought was still intimidating, but it was also... exciting. It felt like the natural next step. I had received so much from this community-knowledge, friendship, a sense of purpose. The idea of giving something back felt right.
Doretha, of course, was all in. "We can make digital presentations! And show them how to use the software for digital modes!" she buzzed.
Samuel, surprisingly, agreed immediately. "I can handle the electronics theory and antenna principles," he said with his usual confidence. "Most people get stuck there. I can make it make sense."
Azhar, with his university schedule, couldn't commit to every class, but he offered to run special sessions on antenna building.
All eyes turned to me. "What about you, Haruka?" Gregory asked.
"I can do the rules and regulations part," I said, surprising myself with my own decisiveness. "And maybe... I can talk about what it's like to be a new ham. The practical stuff."
And so I became an Elmer's apprentice.
The first class was nerve-wracking. I stood at the front of the community center room-the same room where I had taken my own exam-and looked out at a sea of about twenty eager, curious faces. They were all ages, from teenagers to retirees.
My part was at the beginning of the course, covering the basics of FCC rules. I had a stack of notes, my hands shaking slightly as I held them. I started to speak, my voice a little tight. I talked about frequency allocations, legal power limits, and station identification rules.
As I spoke, I saw the looks on their faces. Some were confused. Some were bored. This was the dry, tedious part of the material. I was losing them.
I paused, took a deep breath, and decided to ditch my notes.
"Okay, let me put it this other way," I said, changing tactics. "Why do these rules matter? They're not just there to make you memorize stuff for a test. They're what keep us from sounding like the CB radio."
That got a few chuckles.
"The rules are what allow us to share this resource, the airwaves, without chaos," I continued, finding my rhythm. "The station ID rule? That's so we know who we're talking to. It builds accountability and community. The band plans? They're like traffic lanes on a highway, keeping the fast-moving CW stations from colliding with the voice conversations. It's all about respect. Respect for the spectrum, and respect for each other."
I started telling them stories. I told them about my first contact, how following the proper calling procedure got me an answer from a thousand miles away. I told them about the contest, how the rules of the exchange made it possible to have thousands of conversations in a weekend. And I told them about the storm, how our adherence to net protocol allowed us to pass life-or-death messages efficiently.
Suddenly, the rules weren't just abstract concepts. They were the foundation of everything cool and important about the hobby. The students started asking questions. They were engaged.
At the end of my presentation, a woman who looked about my mom's age came up to me. "Thank you," she said. "You made it make sense. You made it seem... important."
That was the moment I truly understood what being an Elmer was about. It wasn't just about teaching the facts. It was about sharing the passion.
Over the next two months, our team found its groove. Samuel was a brilliant, if demanding, teacher of electronics, using analogies and simple diagrams to explain complex ideas. Doretha's session on digital modes was a huge hit, as she showed them how to send messages across the globe with a tiny USB device and a laptop.
My role evolved. I became the class mentor. During breaks, students would come to me with their questions and anxieties. "I'll never get the math," one would say. "I'm nervous about talking on the air," another would admit.
I'd listen, and I'd share my own experiences. I told them how I'd struggled with the theory, how terrified I was before my first call. I tried to be the reassuring voice that Gregory and Azhar had been for me.
The day of the exam was tense, but I was on the other side of it now. I wasn't a nervous test-taker; I was a proud mentor, watching my students. As the volunteer examiners graded the tests, I held my breath.
One by one, the results came in. Of the twenty students who started the class, eighteen of them passed. There was a round of cheers and applause in the room.
Seeing the looks of joy and relief on their faces was a reward far greater than any QSL card or contest certificate. We had done it. We had helped create a new generation of hams.
A few days later, I heard a new callsign on the local repeater. It was one of my students, making her very first call. Her voice was shaky, nervous, just like mine had been.
I smiled, picked up my microphone, and answered her.
"Welcome to the airwaves," I said, my voice warm and steady. "You're sounding great. The name here is Haruka."