A letter

Dear You,

I’m not sure if you remember me, but hopefully you do. (This is an odd way to begin a letter and certainly very mysterious, but the next paragraphs might shed some light.)

Picture this: it’s 1992 and you’re teaching at My Old Elementary School. It’s sometime in the morning, and you’ve given the sleepy-eyed grade six class some quiet time for independent reading before recess. A small, timid Asian girl with highly mismatched clothes and unevenly cut bangs comes up to your desk and shows you her notebook. In it is a play that she is writing; through the amateurish scrawl you can see that it’s about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. The gang has been transplanted to the present day and is aghast to find that the state of the environment is deteriorating at an exceedingly rapid pace. At once they make a pact to teach the world about reducing, reusing and recycling. And perhaps Sir Galahad says some funny things in between.

You read the play and give her some suggestions and critiques, but encourage her to continue on. It’s at that moment that this self-conscious eleven-year-old girl feels that maybe, just maybe, she has it in her to write.

Fast forward to 2013 and the girl is turning 33-years-old. She still believes that she has it in her to write. And for that, she has you to thank.

You taught me in grade five and six and although it was a very long time ago, I’ve never forgotten you. Countless schools and teachers and professors later, it’s you that I remember when I think about the moment I knew that my love of writing was more than just a passing phase. Not only were you a skilled and amiable teacher, you were also extremely kind, generous, and supportive. I truly think you believed in me when I didn’t really believe in myself.

There are other memories that I have: when you taught me how to play chess and we formed a small team (I really thought I could be the next Bobby Fischer but alas, I realized I was an offensive player and that didn’t work out well most of the time); the first time you introduced our class to the world wide web (the “information superhighway,” as it was coined back then, and I really thought it was a highway that somehow connected the world); when you taught me how to execute the triple jump and I placed second in the annual track & field competition (that was the extent of my athletic career, sadly); when you cultivated my love of reading by assigning me a separate reading list (Beowulf was difficult to get through but somehow we managed together); when you cast me in our school play, Rainbow Wing, as one of the narrators despite my crippling stage fright (still here to this day but I can usually curb the instinct to run when I have to speak in front of a group of strangers). These are the experiences that shaped my childhood and are still a part of me today.

And of course, there were the bigger things.

I’ll never forget the compassion and benevolence you showed me when we planned our school trip to Barbados. Having only been in the country for a few years, my parents had not been able to apply for Canadian citizenship. Instead of leaving those of us unable to travel behind, you and the French teacher arranged for me and another girl to accompany you to Ottawa to obtain a temporary travel visa.

And I’ll also never forget how everyone, including other teachers like my grade four teacher and Mr. S.(he had a habit of writing on the chalkboard while staring down the class and it was terrifying), and the parents banded together in an effort to fundraise for those of us who couldn’t afford to fly to Barbados.

More than anything, those experiences were worth more to me than the trip itself. (Although admittedly, yes, the trip itself was also fantastic.)

When I graduated in grade six and had to say good-bye to you, it was one of the most poignant moments in my life. I had my life ahead of me and I trudged on through the ups and downs. But now that I look back, these are the things that bring a smile to my face.

I’m not sure if you’ll remember that I visited a year later to say hello. You were working in the school library at the time and we chatted about my new school and my writing. It was a time in my adolescence (followed by many more years of this) where I was feeling very lost and alone. I truly felt that I had a friend in you. But then I heard about the school closure and had no way to get in contact with you.

I wanted to write you this letter to let you know that you were always my favourite teacher, and to thank you again for all that you sacrificed — your time, your effort, and your patience — to help me learn, grow, and become my own person. As someone who had always been shy and introverted, your presence in my life helped me foster a sense of who I was becoming, and you gave me the confidence not only to continue to write when I was unsure of myself (though I could have done without the cringe-inducing years of bad teenage poetry writing), but also the confidence to know that even a shy, awkward girl like me could do anything.

You were truly a marvelous teacher and an outstanding person. My hope is that every child will encounter someone like you in his or her life.

Sincerely,
Me

PS: Upon graduating, you gave me an English award in conjunction with a thesaurus. The thesaurus is still one of the most prized possessions that have.

Mailed in April 2013