If you drive out of Phoenix, Arizona, you’ll find the mysterious Superstition Mountains hovering above the eastern horizon. Keep on their southern side toward Superior (stopping for a quick burrito and horchata at Jalepeño’s) and merge onto scenic Highway 177. From here, you’ll enter the White Canyon Wilderness and some of the most beautiful desert landscape you may ever find. When you start to spot patches of rusty orange silt on the side of the road, you’ll have reached the small mining town of Ray, named for the Ray Copper Company. Founded in 1882 (and, remarkably, still in operation today), the Ray open-pit mine is home to one of the largest copper reserves in the United States, earning Arizona its affectionate nickname as “The Copper State.”

Keep driving past the mine and you’ll find the Gila River guiding you toward the next nearest town, Kearny, the home of Ray High School. This is where—for over 30 years—Mr. Mark Muñoz taught music to hundreds and hundreds of young people. It’s where he taught clarinet to a young Jon Gomez. Mr. Jon Gomez, of course, would eventually go on to teach music himself at Dobson High School in Mesa, Arizona, where a young rough, ready, and rather unrefined Michael Markowski was eager to play saxophone and study scores.

In August of 2025, just as I was beginning to work on this piece, Mr. Muñoz passed away. Remembering him, Jon wrote, “I will forever be profoundly grateful for the potential Mr. Muñoz saw in me, long before I realized it myself. With patience, positivity, and encouragement, he helped me develop and cultivate what would eventually become my passion.”

I kept thinking about how grateful I am for my own Mr. Muñoz: Mr. Gomez—grateful to him and to all the people in my life I’ve been lucky to call teachers and mentors. Like Mr. Muñoz before him, Jon can see something precious deep inside his students. He can sense unrealized potential waiting to be extracted—a hunger to express our true selves and a desire to share that expression with others.

This piece is a celebration, but it’s a sentimental one. It’s a tribute to all the people who leave their mark on our lives—our teachers, our families, our friends and neighbors, and even our pets. To me, these are the architects of our character. These are the people who see something in us before we see it ourselves. These are “the coppersmiths” who bend and hammer and shape us from something raw and rugged into something beautiful, compassionate, and purposeful so that we may someday shine brighter than we ever knew possible.