Stephen Curry Sees His Former Teacher Living On The Street — His Attitude Will Make You Cry
.
.
.
play video:
Stephen Curry and Mrs. Jenkins: A Story of Gratitude, Dignity, and Transformation
On a cold February morning, the streets of Charlotte were quiet under a gray sky hinting at snow. Stephen Curry, the Golden State Warriors superstar, was back in his hometown for a charity event during the NBA All-Star break. After the event at the Dell Curry Foundation, Steph decided to take a solitary walk through the neighborhoods that had shaped his childhood. He dismissed his security and assistants, wanting to reconnect with the ordinary streets and memories that had made him who he was.
Steph’s breath blurred in the chilly air as he wandered past familiar stores and the courts where he’d first fallen in love with basketball. As he turned a corner near Charlotte Christian School, his alma mater, something caught his eye. An elderly woman, perhaps in her seventies, sat on a piece of cardboard against the wall of a closed shop. Despite the cold, she was carefully organizing a small pile of old math books, her trembling hands moving with the precision of someone who once arranged shelves in a classroom.
There was something familiar about her—the dignity in her gestures, even in a worn coat. When she looked up to adjust her broken glasses, Steph’s heart skipped a beat. “Mrs. Jenkins?” he whispered, hardly believing his eyes.
The woman squinted, trying to see better. Her face was thinner, older, but her eyes—those penetrating blue eyes—were unmistakable. “Excuse me, young man,” she replied, her voice hoarse. “I can’t see well without my proper glasses.”
Steph knelt beside her, emotion tightening his throat. “It’s me. Steph—Steph Curry. Your seventh-grade student.”
She frowned, studying his face. Then recognition dawned, and her eyes lit up. “Steph! My little parabola genius!” A tear slipped down Steph’s cheek at the sound of the old nickname.
“Do you remember Curry’s theorem?” she asked, a smile breaking through her weariness. “That formula you created to explain trajectories using basketball shots?”
Steph’s mind flooded with memories: him at thirteen, frustrated by equations; Mrs. Jenkins staying after class, creating three-dimensional models with her own money; the way she turned numbers into tools he could use on the court. The woman who had changed his academic life, who had believed in him beyond basketball, now sat alone on the street, her math books her only treasures.
“What happened, Mrs. Jenkins?” Steph asked softly.
She looked away, pride flickering in her eyes. “Life doesn’t always follow the trajectory we calculate, Steph. Some variables are unpredictable.”
Steph sat beside her on the cardboard, ignoring the stares of passersby who were beginning to recognize the NBA superstar. “Tell me,” he said gently.
Soon, they were sitting in a nearly empty café, Mrs. Jenkins warming her hands around a cup of tea Steph had insisted she accept. “I don’t need charity, Steph,” she’d protested, but relented when he claimed to need her help understanding some mathematical concepts for his work with shot trajectories.
“I taught for 35 years,” she said quietly. “First at Charlotte Christian, then in the public system. I loved every minute, even when my salary barely covered the bills.” Her eyes grew distant. “My husband Robert passed away two years after I retired. Pancreatic cancer—fast and devastating. I thought we were prepared. We had savings, my pension, his insurance. Then I was diagnosed with breast cancer. The treatments were long. Insurance covered part, but the special medications and hospitalizations…” She shook her head. “The math is simple, Steph. Fixed income, growing expenses. Our retirement savings were already devastated by the 2008 crisis.”
She sipped her tea. “I sold the house to pay medical debts, moved to a small apartment. Then came a flood. I lost almost everything. The books,” she gestured to her pile, “were all I managed to save.”
Steph’s eyes filled with tears. “Why didn’t you reach out? Former colleagues, ex-students?”
She shook her head. “And say what? ‘Remember me, your teacher from 20 years ago? Do you have a spare room?’ I tried with some friends, but everyone has their own problems. People are kind for a week, maybe a month. Then you start to feel like a burden.”
“You could have reached out to me,” Steph said, his voice thick. “Or any other student whose life you changed.”
She looked at him with the same intensity she’d once used to command his attention in class. “My job was to educate, not to create connections for future benefit. What I did for you, I did out of vocation, not for reward.”
They sat in silence, the weight of her words settling between them. “I still help neighborhood kids with math,” she finally said, a faint smile lighting her tired face. “I sit in the park when it’s sunny. Sometimes they bring me a sandwich or a few dollars. I’m an educator, Steph, not a charity case.”
Steph remembered how she’d transformed his relationship with numbers, how she’d seen potential in him when others only saw a restless boy obsessed with sports. “Mrs. Jenkins, I wouldn’t be where I am today without you. You taught me more than math. You taught me I could be more than just an athlete.”
She tried to hide a tear. “Please,” Steph said, “let me give back—not out of charity, but out of gratitude. Out of justice.”
Mrs. Jenkins hesitated, her dignity warring with need. “I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You carried so many of us,” Steph replied gently. “Let us carry you a little now.”
After a long pause, she nodded. “Not for me,” she whispered, “but perhaps for the message it might send to other educators. So they know their work matters.”
Steph arranged for Mrs. Jenkins to stay in a hotel suite—modest, but to her, it felt like a palace after months on the street. “It’s temporary,” he explained. “We’ll find something permanent. You deserve your dignity back.”
Over the next days, Steph postponed commitments to help her. He took her shopping for clothes, though she resisted anything she deemed extravagant. At the optical store, she protested the modern frames. “The simplest ones work perfectly,” she insisted.
“Consider it an investment in the future mathematicians you’ll teach,” Steph smiled, and she relented.
Behind the scenes, Steph’s foundation worked tirelessly. They found a housing program for retired educators in Charlotte, though it had a long waiting list. The foundation’s legal team negotiated with hospitals to reduce her medical debt. Each small victory was met with new obstacles: lost forms, bureaucratic red tape, the stigma of homelessness.
One day, Steph returned to the hotel to find Mrs. Jenkins in tears. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Your assistant told me about the interview you gave,” she said, drying her eyes. “About my situation?”
Steph sat beside her, embarrassed. “I only mentioned I was helping a teacher who changed my life. No details, no names.”
“I’m not a charity project for your image, Steph.” Her voice trembled. “I spent my life building respect as an educator. Now I’ll be known as Steph Curry’s homeless teacher.”
“You’re right,” Steph said softly. “I made a mistake. Nothing more will be done without your consent. This isn’t about me—it’s about giving back to someone who changed my life.”
Days later, during a Warriors visit to Charlotte, Steph invited Mrs. Jenkins to watch practice. In the quiet gym, he introduced her to the team. “This is Mrs. Eleanor Jenkins, my seventh-grade math teacher. She taught me about parabolas and trajectories—concepts I use in every shot.”
Players gathered around, sharing stories of educators who had shaped their lives. Mrs. Jenkins, seeing genuine respect in their eyes, whispered, “I never knew what I taught would live on this way.”
Steph then led her to a meeting room where educators and curriculum specialists were gathered. “We’re developing an educational program that applies mathematics through sports in public schools,” he explained. “We need someone who understands both numbers and how to reach kids who don’t see themselves as ‘math people.’ I’m offering you a job as the program’s principal consultant—with salary and benefits. Nobody knows this method better than you.”
Mrs. Jenkins’s eyes filled with tears, but this time, they were tears of hope. For the first time in years, she wasn’t seen as a problem to be solved, but as a solution to be valued.
A blurry photo of Steph Curry talking with an elderly woman in a café soon went viral. When journalists discovered the woman was Eleanor Jenkins, the retired teacher who had taught the basketball star, the story exploded. “It’s invasive,” Mrs. Jenkins protested, but Steph saw an opportunity—not for exposure, but for change.
Reluctantly, Mrs. Jenkins agreed to one joint interview on Good Morning America. Sitting beside her former student, she spoke not about her personal journey, but about a larger crisis. “I dedicated my life to educating children,” she said. “Thousands of retired teachers face financial insecurity after decades of service. The elderly are the fastest-growing segment among homeless people in the United States. A country that doesn’t value those who educate its children is not investing in its own future.”
Her words struck a national chord. The hashtag #TeachersChangeLives trended for weeks. Former students across the country sought out teachers who had impacted them, discovering many in similar circumstances. Technology companies created funds for retired educators. Universities established subsidized housing programs. Lawmakers proposed pension reforms.
The educational program Mrs. Jenkins developed, connecting math and sports, expanded to fifty schools in its first year. Videos of her demonstration classes went viral, showing how abstract equations came alive when applied to real-life situations.
In her new apartment in a housing complex for educators, Mrs. Jenkins started a support group for retired teachers facing hardship. Every Tuesday, her room filled with educators sharing resources and reminding each other of their value.
A year after their reunion, Steph invited Mrs. Jenkins to Charlotte Christian School. In a packed auditorium, he announced the creation of the Eleanor Jenkins Scholarship—a $2 million fund to support future math and science teachers dedicated to innovative teaching.
In Mrs. Jenkins’s teary eyes, Steph saw something no trophy could match: the feeling of a circle completed, of true reciprocity.
When invited to speak, Mrs. Jenkins stood tall. “I never taught expecting rewards or recognition,” she said. “I taught because every young person deserves someone who sees their unique potential. A teacher’s true success isn’t in the famous adults they’ve formed, but in the person each student has become.”
Two years later, in a vibrant classroom full of teachers-in-training, Mrs. Jenkins enthusiastically demonstrated the same “Curry’s theorem” she’d invented decades ago. Her new glasses sparkled as she drew perfect parabolas on the board. At the door, Steph watched, a tear running down his cheek. Of all the victories he’d ever won, seeing his former teacher restored in dignity and purpose would forever be his greatest.
