An Open Letter

 

Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one in the world who is bothered by seemingly insignificant things that happened in childhood. I remember some very forgettable incidents, often ones that embarrassed me at the time. The thing is, remembering them, I am as embarrassed by what I did or said as I was at the time.

For me, time doesn’t really heal. It doesn’t make the truly bothersome little details fade.

No, I don’t remember everything that ever happened in my life, but people have frequently remarked, when I’ve told them something from my childhood, “How do you remember that?”

Well, I do because it still bothers me. And sometimes these things make me think that really I’m a bad person.

I remember happy things as well, or funny things. How do people not remember things they did when they were four? That was one of the best years of my life!

So, this month I thought I would attempt to exorcise a ghost from my past. It’ll probably give some a chuckle to think that I could recall something anyone else would have forgotten about by the week after it happened, at the latest.

Here is my open letter to my third grade teacher.

 

Dear Miss Betty,

When you dashed into the classroom and asked, “Who screamed?” no one was more shocked than I was. I had no idea what you were talking about. I did not hear a scream. I thought you were crazy. Perhaps it was something that happened outside in the hall, where you were, monitoring students lined up to get on the next school bus.

Here’s what happened in the room: Everyone waiting for the other buses was chatting quietly with those around them. We were standing or sitting. No one was being loud or running around.

Since it was the first week of school, we weren’t wearing uniforms yet. The sash on my dress had come undone. I couldn’t tie it behind my back. I wasn’t that good at tying yet. I asked Debbie to tie the sash. She did. She said something funny, and I laughed. I didn’t think I laughed very loudly.

Then suddenly you were in the room asking the question. Debbie looked at me and said I did it. I didn’t know why she said that. No one screamed that I heard.

No one admitted it, and Debbie was the only one looking at me. In fact, everyone else looked as confused as I felt. I was the last person you asked, so I assume you thought it was me anyway, and were giving me a chance to admit it. But I didn’t scream, and I didn’t hear anyone else scream. All I did was laugh. That’s why I didn’t admit it when you asked.

Why would I admit to something I didn’t do? But you asked everyone else and they all said no. The fact that Debbie kept saying I did it was the only reason I said yes when you asked. I didn’t scream. I just got punished for something I didn’t do.

I thought telling an eight-year-old to write a 100-word apology was a bit much. Quite a bit much. Writing 25 times, “I’m sorry,” and whatever else you wanted to make the sentence longer, would have been sufficient. I’m sure you not only didn’t count the words, you also didn’t even look at it. I’m certain that as soon as we were all out of the room you threw it in the trash. So much for overseeing a punishment.

I wish I’d explained it to my mother and she’d written a note on what happened. I wouldn’t have been able to write this letter when I was eight. I didn’t have the words. As it was, it took the entire weekend to write the apology.

Even if I’d had to write a punishment anyway, perhaps having me write a paragraph or two explaining why I had done what I did would have been both a punishment to me and a bit of enlightenment to you. Perhaps it would have alerted you and my parents that something was going on in my head that I wasn’t aware of, and perhaps needed attention. I doubt anyone would have done anything about it, though. I do know something similar has happened to me several times since, over the course of my life.

I have been carrying the resentment of the stupidity of the punishment, the certainty that after this incident you did not trust my honesty, and probably didn’t like me, ever since. I have also carried the desire to explain to you what happened all these years. There have been times when the memory of this incident has been part of what kept me up at night, knowing I could never set the record straight.

I liked you as a teacher. I thought, other than on this one occasion, that you were fair. I thought you taught me well. But I have always felt that this one incident put a wall of misunderstanding between us.

I’ve occasionally thought about what it would be like if we ever met once I was an adult. I know I’d bring up the incident. It was probably nothing to you. You’d probably say you didn’t recall it. But I’d have the chance to let you know how much of an impact it had on me, how much of a burden it’s been to me for all of these years. It might shock you how much it has continued to bother me. It shaped my beliefs about my teachers.

When people ask me about school, about favorite teachers, etc., I tell them I don’t think any of my teachers liked me. I don’t mean that they hated me. I mean that I was nothing to them. To some I may have been an annoyance. I think I was that to you. But I was never in anyone’s top 10, or even top 25 out of 50 students in their class. I really doubt that most of my teachers even remember me. I was that invisible.

Maybe this isn’t true.

I had the opportunity to contact a seventh grade teacher once, many, many years after seventh grade. I wanted her permission to dedicate one of my novels to her. She was the person who got me started writing.

She made us keep a journal. We had to write at least two pages each week. I usually wrote many more pages than that. And I would put a note in asking her to read my work. That was my favorite assignment. I’ve kept that journal and read parts of it from time to time. The pieces were awful. Perhaps it wasn’t so awful considering a 12-year-old wrote it, but some of it is embarrassing now.

But it lit the flame for me.

What I started as an assignment in seventh grade has continued to this day.

No, I’m not a famous author. I probably never will be. I doubt that anyone follows my books, or looks for new ones.

I don’t write in one particular genre. I simply write stories that I’d like to read. I write the books I can’t find in the bookstore.

And I’ve read my stories. I like them. Maybe I’m the only one. But there’s satisfaction in being able to tell a story, with befriending characters that are the people I always wanted to meet and never did. Most of them are people who, in real life, probably wouldn’t have me as a friend.

But my seventh grade teacher started me down that road, and I wanted to publicly recognize her for that gift. As I spoke with her by phone – she was an elderly nun in a nursing home – she gradually remembered a few things about me. She asked what my maiden name was, and when I told her, she did seem to remember me. So, perhaps I wasn’t as forgettable as I thought.

Maybe you would remember me. You might even remember the incident. But I doubt it left the imprint on you that it did on me.

Perhaps I’m too sensitive, and should have let it go years ago. But I never could. I needed to explain, and was never given the opportunity.

Some experts say that writing down something that preys on your mind will help you to let it go. I’m hoping that may happen from this letter, even though there’s no way to send it. I don’t even know if you’re still alive. But I don’t really have any expectations from this exercise. I’m just finally taking my turn.

Yours truly,

The little girl with the untied sash from the 1963-64 third grade class.