Letter to a Former Teacher

Dear Mr. Jones,

As a former student I am writing to you to apologize for my behavior that was not your responsibility to bear, as well as try to offer some perspective on that time in my life. Fourth grade was a very difficult time for me and I lacked the social-emotional skills to cope with a burst of new feelings. I was alone a lot. Alone at home. Alone at school. Things were very difficult when you grew up poor in a rich zip code. My mother did her best to brainwash her children into thinking there was nothing wrong with growing up the way we did. Wintertime was always the toughest in my house as we had no heat other than a woodstove in one room of a completely uninsulated, drafty house. It was difficult to focus on my schoolwork when nighttime brought the seemingly endless struggle of where to find firewood or what we would eat. I vaguely recall hearing news stories at that time about a serial killer who was arrested and charged with cannibalism. At the time, it was less sinister and more worrying on a personal scale because I was almost jealous of his full belly. I didn’t quite grasp the importance of the moral outrage being expressed by the revelation that a man who was killing and eating people had been loose in the world because I was hungry enough to do the same.

As you may recall, I did not have any friends while in your class. I did share the love of reading that you tried to instill in countless youths that passed through your tutelage, though. I vividly recall your running list of students you taught who had read their way through your classroom. The competition was fierce and was kept hanging on your wall on a giant piece of poster board. Each book is tallied with a small square of construction paper cut out and delicately glued into place. You questioned each student about the books they read to ensure fairness and accuracy. I would get excited when you pulled those file folders out of your drawer filled with plotline questions for me to answer. Each square next to my name became a step for me to climb higher up the list. My brother had made that list, as had my sister before me. It was the first real competition I was interested in winning, and I can proudly say I did. The day my name replaced a student who had been in your class and held the first place spot for several years (my mother still claims the girl cheated) was a highlight in my youth. The personal lending library that filled your room was invaded by my eager, grasping mind, much like the troops that invaded the desert that year on their way to Kuwait. Your books fed me in ways my mother couldn't and offered me an escape when the world I lived in at home was too cold, unforgiving, and unbearably lonely. Books were always the friends and companions I understood and sought out the most.

So we have come to the apology part of this letter. I stole from you in numerous ways. I stole money out of your desk when you told me to stand still in the corner due to an infraction. Most likely a lack of having turned in homework. Mr. Jones, it was so hard to do my homework without a solid family structure to support me. I know this as clearly as I know my daughter will never lack that structure or support. I couldn't complete my homework because there was nobody at home making sure I actually had the tools to do the endless reports, or even that I brought any of the assignments home. We didn't have access to the public library as my mother was a habitual borrower who never returned books. I’m sure the fines accumulated across all our cards were the size of a small mortgage by the time I became a legal adult. My mother was a single mom and worked night and day, literally. There were nights we would go to her real estate office and I would fall asleep on the conference room floor only to be rudely awakened at 3 or 4 in the morning and shuttled to a dark (couldn’t pay the electric bill again) house that was cold and unforgiving. This would bleed out into my general attitude while in your classroom full of supposed peers who had warm beds, fulfilling lunches, and parents who made sure they had what they needed to get by every day.

Yet even after stealing money from your desk drawer (and getting caught after spending it), you still tried to lift me up. You allowed me to participate in something super special that only four students each year out of fourth and fifth grade were invited to. Odyssey of the Mind (OM) was for exceptionally gifted students, I had gotten used to hearing the term gifted being used to describe me. Often before, the terms defiant or noncompliant in those dreaded parent-teacher meetings were held more frequently than I care to remember. The sandwich effect is what that is called, a compliment, what needs working on, then another compliment to leave a less bitter taste in the mouths of those involved. To this day I can still taste that bitterness. Anyway, this competition required my mother to go above and beyond to make a costume for me to wear since it was themed, as well as help with the materials for three different phases that needed to be completed to win. The only phase I accurately recall was the final one with RC cars that had to pop a balloon. I never had an RC car before and my mom was pissed she had to shell out for one for a school thing. She stayed up late making my costume and was late dropping me off the morning of the competition, but we were always late, so that wasn’t anything new. We didn’t win, but it was one of the first times I was included in something and not watching from the outskirts.

As the year passed, the yellow ribbons my mom had tied around every surface in support of the troops in the Gulf became faded. She no longer forced me to stand still as she braided my hair, ending each section with one. This was a year of fading for me as well. Each new year in school brought me hope that maybe it would be different for me. But this was the last year of hope for myself and for many others who lost loved ones in a war they didn’t support. My mother had to work harder this year, and she became more drawn and tired. It was the year I stole my brother's prized X-men cards and gave them away to students in my class in hopes of gaining some form of favor. It was the year I was so tired and hungry that I actually lost the spelling bee for the first time on a word that, to this day, makes me angry. My mother started singing the “Happy Happy Joy Joy'' song from Ren and Stimpy in the car almost maniacally. A show I had never seen because we didn't have cable or any channels other than two local stations in my moldy family home in the hollow. Yet I knew all the songs because we had the cassette tape in the car courtesy of one of my brother's friends. Fourth grade was the year I realized that I was different and not in a good way. Today differences are celebrated and shouted from the rooftops. Today people post their needs on the internet like a badge of honor with their venmo or cash app attached, knowing that the kindness of strangers is boundless. I lived that year in a fog of stranger danger and the mantra “what will people think, we’re better than that '' endlessly looped in my mother's voice through my brain.

When asked, most teachers say they get into teaching to make a difference. I want you to know that after all these years, I can say you made a difference in my life. Thank you. A common saying is about the little things in life and how important they turn out being. Like a yellow ribbon tied to a tree, I understand now that all the little things add up and become a sea of good, waving in the breeze and fading in time. Much like my memories of the year spent in your classroom during a turning point in my life. So thank you for all the little things.

Sincerely,

Julia