Why Is August Called August? Reflections on the Teachers We Never Forget

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I had intended to publish this reflection on August 1.

August is now well underway.

Sometimes life has other plans, and perhaps that is fitting for August. August has always felt like a month in between. Summer is not quite over, but we can already feel it beginning to change. For many families in the United States, August means the final weeks of summer vacation. For others, it already means backpacks, school supplies, early mornings, and the beginning of another school year.

Growing up in New York, I always associated the beginning of school with September. We had almost the entire month of August left before returning to the classroom. Here in Guatemala, however, most schools begin the academic year in January or February, although some schools that follow an American calendar begin in September. Through living and teaching in different places, I have come to realize how much school calendars vary. This year, one of my students, a teacher in Florida, returned to work in early August, while another was preparing for her son to begin first grade.

The calendar may be the same, but August does not feel the same to everyone.

For me, the beginning of the school year will probably always be associated with September. Still, hearing my students in Florida talk about returning to school in August, and knowing that September is not far away, has made me think about my own time as a student, especially the teachers I had more 30 years ago.

Why is August called August?

Before getting to that, however, there is the question that inspired this series of monthly reflections in the first place: Where did the name August come from?

As I suspected, the answer takes us back to ancient Rome.

August was originally called Sextilis, from the Latin word for “sixth,” because it had been the sixth month of an early Roman calendar that began in March. Even after January and February were added and Sextilis became the eighth month, the old name remained.

That changed in 8 BCE, when the Roman Senate renamed the month Augustus in honor of Augustus Caesar, Rome’s first emperor.

Augustus had been born Gaius Octavius and is often referred to by historians as Octavian. He was the adopted son and heir of Julius Caesar and became Rome’s dominant ruler following years of civil war. In 27 BCE, the Roman Senate granted him the title Augustus, meaning “revered” or “venerable,” the name by which history would remember him.

Sextilis was especially significant in Augustus’s life. According to the ancient account of the Senate’s decision, several important events in his rise to power had occurred during that month in different years. He began his first consulship, returned to Rome to celebrate three triumphs, brought Egypt under Roman control, and brought the civil wars to an end.

Clearly, Sextilis had been very good to Augustus.

For these reasons, the Senate decreed that Sextilis would be known as Augustus. More than two thousand years later, we are still calling it August.

There is also a popular story that Augustus added a day to his month so that it would have 31 days, just like July, the month named for Julius Caesar. It is a good story, but it is not true. Sextilis already had 31 days before it became August.

And that brings me back to my teachers.

The teachers we carry with us

Lately, I have been thinking about how much of the person I became can be traced back to classrooms I sat in as a child.

I am 42 years old. I studied history in college. Today, I teach English, and I am two courses away from finishing my master’s degree in education. I was not traditionally trained as a teacher. Education was not my undergraduate major. In many ways, I came to teaching through a different route.

And yet, when I think about the kind of teacher I try to be today, I can see the influence of teachers I had in middle school remarkably clearly.

One of them was Martin White, my sixth-grade social studies teacher.

His class was my first class of the day, and I remember what it felt like to begin the morning with a teacher who was prepared, enthusiastic, and genuinely cared about his students. His lessons were dynamic, and he made social studies feel like much more than memorizing information from a textbook.

Through his class, I learned about ancient Egypt, mummies, mummification, and cultures that had existed thousands of years before us. Something came alive for me in that classroom. Years later, I would study history at university, and history, art, and culture remain some of my greatest interests today.

Mr. White also introduced me to community service. I remember visiting a nursing home with my classmates and spending time talking with the residents. It was my first experience with volunteering, and it taught me that giving back does not always mean giving money. We can also give our time and attention.

I recently looked up Mr. White and discovered that he is still teaching social studies. His current description of his classroom mentions role-playing, hands-on projects, debates, historical trips, music, and community service. It made me smile because that is exactly the kind of teacher I remember.

And then there was Ms. Dillon.

Learning Latin with Ms. Dillon

Rita Dillon was my Latin teacher. I began taking Latin in seventh grade and had her for two years.

I absolutely loved her class.

In fact, one of the only things I disliked about Latin was that we did not have it every day.

Ms. Dillon taught us Latin, but she gave us much more than vocabulary and grammar. She introduced me to Greek and Roman mythology. Through her, I discovered the Trojan War and The Odyssey.

What I remember most was the way she told these stories.

She did not sit down one afternoon and rush through the entire story of Odysseus. She told it to us gradually, piece by piece, over weeks and perhaps even months. We waited to hear what happened next. Ancient stories became something we could look forward to.

Nearly three decades later, I still remember that.

Now, in 2026, The Odyssey seems to be everywhere again. Christopher Nolan’s new adaptation has brought Homer’s ancient story back into popular conversation. Every time I hear the title, my memory travels backward, not simply to ancient Greece, but to a middle school classroom and a teacher named Ms. Dillon.

A story that survived for thousands of years was passed from a teacher to a group of seventh graders, and one of those seventh graders is sitting here decades later, still thinking about it.

What good teachers leave behind

During my master’s program, I learned the academic language for concepts I had experienced long before I knew what to call them. One of those concepts was self-efficacy: our belief in our own ability to learn, grow, and succeed.

Looking back, I believe teachers like Mr. White and Ms. Dillon helped nurture that in me.

They also encouraged my curiosity.

They showed me that learning could be enjoyable simply because knowing something new was exciting. A class could take you somewhere else. It could make you curious about a civilization, a language, a story, or a culture that you had known nothing about 45 minutes earlier.

That is something I think about now when I teach.

Most of my students come to English because they need it. Some need English for their careers. Some have moved to the United States. Others are preparing for an exam, pursuing an academic goal, or trying to communicate more confidently in their everyday lives.

Those are important reasons to learn a language, but I never want English to feel like nothing more than an obligation.

That is why I try to bring different subjects, stories, questions, cultures, and ideas into my classes. Not every student will be fascinated by the same things that fascinate me, nor should they be. Part of teaching is discovering what makes a particular student curious and finding a way to connect learning to that curiosity.

One of the greatest compliments a student can give me is not a test score. It is telling me that they enjoy coming to class and that they look forward to our lessons.

I know what that feels like.

I felt it in Mr. White’s social studies classroom.

I felt it in Ms. Dillon’s Latin classroom.

Thirty years later, I am still carrying it with me.

An August reflection

August is a month named for a Roman emperor. It is also a month that, for many of us, signals a transition: the closing weeks of summer and the beginning of another academic year.

Perhaps that is why these teachers have been on my mind.

Every year, teachers walk into classrooms without knowing which small moments their students will remember decades later. It might be a story told especially well, a lesson that made an ancient civilization suddenly fascinating, or simply the feeling of looking forward to class.

Students may forget the worksheet. They may forget the homework. They may even forget most of what was on the test.

But sometimes they remember how a teacher made them want to know more.

Mr. White and Ms. Dillon could not have known that one of their students would eventually become a teacher herself. They could not have known that the subjects they made exciting would remain among her greatest interests or that, when she entered a classroom of her own, she would try to give her students some version of what they had once given her.

That is one of the remarkable things about teaching.

We do not always get to see how far our influence travels.

This article was written by Yoly Rueda, founder of Remote Study Academy and Traducción Jurada Guatemala, where she works as an English-Spanish sworn translator authorized in Guatemala. A graduate of New York University, she holds a master’s degree in International Relations from Universidad Francisco Marroquín and is currently completing a master’s degree in Education at the University of the People. Through Remote Study Academy, she teaches English to adults and professionals through personalized online instruction.