Love Letters from Heather

To my grade 9 and 10 English teacher, Mrs. Cheeseman.

You are small in stature but large on impact. I can still hear the commanding click of your high heels as your tiny frame scurried about the classroom with short, quick steps turning over: clack, clack, clack in rapid succession. You were originally from Hawaii, I believe. Japanese descent.

You were always prepared, and I loved your engaging lessons. English quickly became my absolute favourite class. You were a true professional. In grade 9, two older grade 11 students were assigned to the front row as this wasn’t their first rodeo with grade 9 English—Kevin and Rob. From time to time, they attempted to hijack the class, sometimes making jokes or laughing. Never worked. You were having none of it. You were firm and fair and dealt with their foolishness with grace and wisdom.

We read a short story, “The Scarlett Ibis” written by American novelist James Hurst. It is a tragic tale that emotes a large dose of regret. A cautionary story about pride. My favourite line in it is “There is inside me (and with sadness I have seen it in others) a knot of cruelty borne by the stream of love.” You gave us a simple assignment—write a letter to the character “Brother,” whose point of view the story was written from, as if he were now an adult, and offer some advice.

I would be dishonest if I told you my classmates wanted to complete this writing assignment. It caused quite a ruckus. The questions about what to do were endless. I did not understand the confusion. I relished this opportunity. I wrote my letter, handed it in, and thought little more about it.

Until you marked them and told the class you were going to read some out loud. You said that possibly some students didn’t understand the instructions and that you wanted to share some examples of what you were looking for. You said there was one that really stood out. And you read mine. First. You called it insightful. I wish I still had the letter. The only thing I recall for certain about its contents was that it focussed on self-forgiveness and how the main character in this story could use this life experience to become a better person. He couldn’t change the past, but he could change the future. Self-punishment and guilt served no practical purpose going forward. (Apparently, even at 14, I Iived primarily in my own head.)

That was a turning point. A pivotal moment when something that already existed inside me awakened. On the surface it was simply an acknowledgment from a teacher. But sometimes that is all it takes: a recognition, a compliment spoken, a word of encouragement, a passing remark. I knew I wanted to write one day.

Interestingly, I did not choose writing as a career. I went into teaching. It made sense. It was a linear career path, defined and exact. It paid actual money. But like things that are meant to be in one’s life, they always find a way, turning up at various times. At 35, I would change course, trusting your words so I could use my own.

Thank you for teaching me the power of acknowledgment. I hope I utilize this lesson to recognize talent in others. To encourage, to exalt, to praise, no matter how insignificant it may feel to me.

I love and respect you, wherever you are!

Your former student,

Heather

PS. Assigning journaling in grade 10 was the second-best thing you did for me! Thanks.

PPS. Thank you for letting me know that positive is spelled p-o-s-i-t-i-v-e instead of p-o-s-a-t-i-v-e, which has saved me boatloads of embarrassment, I am sure.

~

Love Letters from Heather is a series. If you enjoyed this installment, feel free to read others:

To my son, Jason

To Gail

 To my daughter, Charity

 To my bother, David

 To my former student, Brady

To my daughter, Candice

 To the guy I met in the Chicago Criminal court 

 To my dad