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Dear Brady

My former student

By Heather DownPublished 11 months ago Updated 11 months ago 3 min read
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Dear Brady,

I know you will not read this. However, I feel compelled to write this letter anyway.

Teachers lie.

They say they do not have favorites but they do, pretending to be impartial like the inner workings of a computer

Zeros and ones

Either-or

Switch on or off,

they exhibit fairness to all students.

But,

underneath it all

they are not robots;

they are humans,

people,

people who, day in and day out, deal with other people,

and due to an incomprehensible algorithm created unconsciously by their personalities—people are drawn to certain others naturally.

Brady

Eighth grade

Wire-rimmed glasses

Light-brown hair

Stuck in that adolescent stage

Unpredictable

Crackling voice

Some days a boy and some days a young man

Yet always my favorite student

Smart

Popular

Lover of responsibility and achievement—

most of the time

Yet sometimes

Surly

Snappy

Irritated

Was teacher my role?

Not solely.

Parent, friend, social worker, sergeant major…

and even police officer at times.

It didn’t take a PhD to figure it out.

You were never upset with any of the male teachers, just me, the female, homeroom teacher.

Your dad was a horse dealer, often leaving you home with your stepmom

Resentful

Abandoned

Unseen

Transference, I the target.

Graduation night

Suited

Booted

Untied tie in hand, panic swirling in your eyes.

“I don’t know how to tie this,” you said

I didn’t either. The principal did, though.

A question hung unsaid in the air: Why didn’t your dad help you?

It was his birthday.

He was celebrating instead of being here

with you.

The last time I saw you, you were the final student to be picked up after graduation,

in a cab, a cab with your inebriated father and stepmom in the backseat.

***

Seven years later, I sit in the staff room.

Another teacher pulls up a chair and speaks into one of my ears nonchalantly like she is announcing something

Factual

Mundane

Ordinary ,

like she is stating that it is Tuesday or that the sky is blue.

“Did you teach Brady?”

Gun

Mouth

Trigger

Gone

She walks away.

The room spins.

I fight for breath.

But

the bell rings,

so I walk to my classroom and take attendance

like I do every other day.

I go home, dig out some photos I took of my very first class, a few of you.

I put them neatly into an envelope and head to the funeral home for visitation.

Your dad

Withered

Distraught

Agonizing in front of your closed casket

I give him your photos

He says, “Thank you.”

The next day is your funeral.

At first, I plan to go,

but I have a charge to keep.

Instead, I spend the day with my son.

We walk to the park and play catch.

It is the right thing to do.

Little do I know that my own son’s father will also find something else to do on the night of his son’s eighth grade graduation.

I will think of you that night, grateful for supportive family and friends who step up to fill that void for him,

To be that voice,

To clap the loudest,

To be the cheerleader ...

To tie the damn tie

My son turns forty this year,

twice the twenty years you were given.

Brady,

I am sorry that being my favorite just wasn’t enough.

Rest easy,

Ms Down, your eighth-grade teacher

sad poetry
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About the Creator

Heather Down

I am an observer of life through the lens of middle age. Owner of an independent publishing house and a published author, I spend my time obsessing about all things communication. Follow me at Wintertickle Press.

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