You had short, curly hair that I remember as being a blondish gray, but the color never struck me so much as the overall effect, like you had bows for hair, and perhaps it was the subliminal notion that you were a gift that had me so taken with you. It was your smile, too, because it was genuine and somehow classy, small but bright, like a 1940's Madge Evans smile. And your steady blue eyes, delicately framed by your glasses, were a promise. You were probably in your late 30's, and I didn't know how I felt about you, but I knew I liked you.
It's funny because even though I was eleven, old enough to actively make and retain memories, I don't remember much about that year, about what you taught us, I mean. I can't even remember the easier things, like the way you held a pencil or a piece of chalk, or the way you greeted the class. And I can hardly remember your voice, that fine auditory wave that guided me through so many lessons that year. But I remember how you let me do a project on tadpoles, how proud I felt in front of the class as I encouraged everyone to come to the front of the room and take a look into the plastic container full of flickering, legless amphibians. I spoke eagerly of the transformation they'd be going through, of the massive changes their tiny bodies would undergo in such a short time. I stole glances at you the whole time, and there you were always, calmly smiling at me.
You thought I was gifted. You told me I had a way with words, that I was special. I loved you for thinking this, for telling me so matter-of-factly, for telling my mom and stepdad, neither of whom had ever told me I was special in any way. You asked my parents for permission to have me tested, and I agreed, though when I asked what would happen if I passed, I was told I would be put with a group of students who were also advanced, and we would do more challenging work in another classroom, and that didn't sound good to me. But I wanted to be special, so I took the test. It was an IQ test, and I excelled with the language-related tasks but was stymied when it came to the left-brained problems presented. In the end, I fell just a few points under the mark, and I was relieved. We still had quite a good deal of the school year left to go.
You had a sort of honors club wherein high achievers in the class would get to take field trips with you. I don't think they would allow this kind of thing today, but I absolutely loved it. I remember how a small group of us went to your red brick townhouse in West Chester, the exclusive nature of it. How you let me play with the antique phone on the wall, how the wooden floors squeaked and shone and reminded me of Christmas, how I realized you lived alone, how the feeling part of me that didn't yet have the knowledge or words for the feeling I felt for you wondered if you were like me. You bought us pizza, and we all drank soda and ate and talked. Sometimes you'd take us other places. I remember the trip to the courthouse. I don't think you knew what case was going to be happening that day because it was a rape case. I remember the solemnity of that wooden-benched room, how still and quiet you were, how the rest of us sat close to you, quiet as mice, not saying how we felt, not knowing how to say it.
After sixth grade, I rarely saw you, but I made it a point to visit you when I graduated high school. I found you in a hallway of the new middle school building, and you seemed tired out from all the newness, and I thought of your townhouse and the wood floors and I wondered if the florescent lights we were standing under had anything to do with the change, and I wanted something from you, too, but I didn't know what, and you wished me luck, and I left you, knowing finally, as I walked away, what it was I wanted.
I sent you a letter when I was a freshman in college, and to my surprise you wrote back. I still have the letter, written on notebook paper, and am looking at it now. Your handwriting is lacy, but not as fine and gauzy as a grandmother's. It reminds me of the way you sat at your desk, your careful posture, the look you got on your face when you were grading at the front of the room while the class was hunched over their books, quietly reading. You begin by saying what a nice surprise it is to hear from me, and you write about the snowy weather and "treacherous" driving and how teaching at the middle school compares to teaching at the elementary school. There is whiteout beneath the whole of the word "elementary," and I wonder if you misspelled it the way I misspell cemetery because the second e sounds like an a.
You wrote the first half of the letter in red pen on March 4, 2003 and the rest of the letter in pencil on March 6th. Here, you tell me that college was one of the greatest times of your life, and in response to my having divulged my choice to major in creative writing, you proclaim, "Good for you!" And reading it now, I still feel your pride in me and in your job. You go on to say that you read my letter to the class, I'm guessing to inspire them, and that "they were delighted that you bought a gecko." I can't remember if I told you in my letter that I bought that gecko with my girlfriend, but I bet I kept that hidden from you; I can't imagine you would have read that part to a class of sixth graders. You end your letter with this: "Take care and write soon, Love, Miss _____."
I don't think I ever wrote you back, and I have your letter but not your address because I lost the envelope. You've retired, I know, because I've looked for you since graduating college and then graduate school, and I wonder if at some point I'll look beyond the dead-end results on Facebook so I can write you again, so I can give you this letter, so I can tell you that I loved you, too, and so I can freely admit that I don't know who you are but I know what you did for me and how you treated me; I want to tell you that you were one of the only sources of adult love in my life when I was eleven and that your smile and your belief in me were what kept me going when everything at home led me to believe I would never be enough.
I guess I'm thinking about you a lot today because I'm an instructor now, and I teach reading and writing, as you did, but to college students, and today in the library a former student of mine caught me browsing through magazines in the stacks and told me how much I meant to him, how much my encouragement and disciplined manner helped him to become a better student. And this came from a guy who did not pass my class. But he'd worked hard, and I'd loved his spirit. I'd pushed him because I'd wanted to see him go beyond himself; I'd wanted him to know he was capable, not just as a student or writer, but as a person. So today, he told me he is taking the class again this term and doing well, and he looked proud, and I almost hugged him, but our eyes said enough, and he thanked me and told me he hoped to see me around.
And we probably will see each other around, at least until he graduates, and then who knows how long it'll be, or if I'll ever hear from him again, but I won't need to because I'll have today's conversation in the library, and I'll have your letter, and I'll know that I can be good to people because you were good to me, because you showed me what I was capable of, and you believed in me. I'll never forget the love you gave me, Miss _____. Keep smiling.
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