Dear Brady
My former student
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
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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