Do You Remember?: A Letter From A Student to Her Teacher

Trigger Warning: This story mentions sexual assault and a psychiatric hospital stay.

Dear Ms. Harding,

Do you remember the “I Would Like Ms. Harding to Know” journaling assignments you would give us in your sixth grade English class at Hidden Path Middle School? Well, here is a journal entry just for you…many moons in the making.

I was almost twelve years old. I was in the class that had the Gifted and Talented Program students, even though I was not in the program. My mother did not want me to be tested for the program because she felt I put too much pressure on myself without it. I want you to know how much that year had an impact on me and my life since then.

Do you remember when I would not talk? I was tall for my age but yet inside I felt very small. My self esteem was very low. Everyone made fun of me because they could not understand me. I spoke with a soft and low voice. I felt stupid and slow, because all the other kids loved to call me retarded. I actually thought my teachers felt the same way. Even though I wore glasses and had braces, my intelligence was the only thing I felt I had going for me. I also did not always have a great life at home.

I still remember how you introduced yourself to us as Ms. Tempest Harding. I was impressed. In your opinion, we were Professional Learners, not just eleven and twelve year old students. You called us that because everyone is a professional at learning. You said we would be learners for the rest of our lives. Everyone in your class was addressed as either Mr. or Miss and their last name. For a while I was Miss Marsden.

Remember the day I asked you to just call me Emmeline? This was because in the gym class before your class, the coaches would use our last names to insult and dehumanize us. I also felt that I did not deserve that much respect from anyone. It made me feel uncomfortable. After that, you respected me enough to honor my wish.

Remember how I used to walk past you every morning? I wasn't trying to be rude. I was shy and scared of everything and everyone. I was raised to fear authority and keep my mouth shut. It was called being respectful. I could not look you in the eye because doing so scared me and, in my home, that was seen as a sign of defiance.

I did not have the same feelings the other kids had about you. They would say that you were mean because you sometimes had a stern look and was known to make us stick to the school rules. You were a true disciplinarian. You had eyes that showed your true feelings: that every student was someone worthwhile, no matter how they acted out. You were not there to win a popularity contest but to make sure we learned how to write concisely, creatively, and with intelligence. Even a student like me, someone who had difficulties interpreting social cues and feelings, could see how much you cared. I actually liked you and your class. I really enjoyed writing for your class.

I took up for you in and outside of class. I refused to let the other students, and sometimes other adults, make mean and rude comments about you, at least around me. I bristled when comments were made about your race. That never mattered to me, although I already knew the answer: that you were a proud Black woman. I often wished I had the hair that you had in comparison to mine.

I remember the day when you told me I was a good writer. I remember the dress and shoes I was wearing. The other students had been dismissed for lunch. I was finishing an assignment and stayed late. When I was about to walk about the classroom door you said to me:

“Emmeline, you are a good writer."

“Thank you," I said, with my eyes registering the shock and happiness of being acknowledged.

I always wondered in the past years if you wished you had never opened that door because, after that, I talked your ear off. You even gave me a special pass to come talk to you during the DEAR period when I was in eighth grade. I held on to that pass for many years after that.

I really enjoyed the books you picked for our class, except for one, “The Hobbit” by J. R. R. Tolkien. I just couldn't get past the first few pages. I remember how on some Fridays we would watch Mel Stuart’s “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” because we had read “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” by Roald Dahl in class. The Fridays that we watched movies that tied into the books we were reading were truly a treat. In the end, my favorite books were “The House of Dies Drear” by Virginia Hamilton and “A Wrinkle in Time” by Madeleine L’Engle.

There was that time I forgot a worksheet in my locker. I was scared because “good girls” do not forget their homework. Even though I had very low self esteem, I still thought I was a good girl. I remember when you asked me where it was, I told the truth: that I had forgotten it. I knew not to ask to go to my locker because of the school's rule about that. The look of disappointment really hit me hard. That was a look I never wanted to see again. That was the only time I ever forgot my work and the only “F” I ever got in your class. When you handed out report cards weeks later and an eighty-seven stared me in the face, you looked at me and said,

“Emmeline, I know you can do better."

And I believed you. After that, even a grade of "B" in my classwork was very rare. Every report card showed an "A” because I worked hard to do that. When I would want to slack off, I would remember how close to tears your look of disappointment made me and try harder.

Do you remember the day I was crying during journaling time and I was too scared to approach you to tell you why? I saw you looking at me but I was afraid to look back because I was ashamed of my tears. I was crying because I saw an ambulance outside the school during the second period gym class. I heard that Mrs. Lane had a heart attack. I was scared for her life. Heart attacks were scary to a girl like me. I was a voracious reader of medical textbooks at the time. I knew not everyone survived those. I know now that it was not a heart attack.

The reason I never approached your desk is because when I first moved to the school district, I had a really unkind teacher who loved to punish me for getting out of my seat when I needed help. I had moved from another district where that was not a big deal but, in fact, they encouraged it. Having to miss so much recess until I learned my lesson broke my eight year old spirit and made me afraid to ask for help from anyone. This is a fear I still carry to this day as an adult. I wish I had told you that.

Do you remember when you and the four other teachers on the teaching team, known as Dream Team, had a contest where if we had good behavior, we would go roller skating at Skater Days as a treat? You and Mrs. Arnott stayed behind but Mrs. Corrigan, Mrs. Emery, their husbands, and Mrs. Lane went with us. I remember how much fun I had. One of the highlights was when Mrs. Corrigan joined us on the rink. Mrs. Lane did not skate that day because something was wrong with her knee. There was another highlight that day. A boy named Mark asked me to skate with him. I remember that I was shocked because I did not think of myself as beautiful. I took his hand and joined him in the couple’s skate.

The following week, in gym class, he asked me to be his girlfriend. I remember telling you about it after class one day. I was excited and confused. You invited me to eat lunch in your classroom with him and other students. I remember the five of you watched to see what I would say. In my childish mind, I thought you were betting amongst yourselves if I would say yes or no. Without speaking a word, I wrote the answer on a napkin in cherry juice. The answer was yes.

What you did not know is that I told the other girls that I told you first. I got teased and yelled at from one end of the locker room to the other. The relationship did not last past the first week of seventh grade.

By then, I had begun to really trust you. I felt comfortable around you. I felt I could tell you anything.

I felt so comfortable around you that, a couple of years later, when I was sexually assaulted by another student in gym class, I wanted to tell you before I went to the assistant principal. Another girl was with me and we stopped in front of your classroom. I hesitated because I did not want you to see me as I saw myself then: a disgusting girl who deserved to have that happen to her.

What you did not know was back then that I had already been assaulted as a young girl by several people. I was already dealing with severe depression. I had other issues, too, as I learned later on in life.

But I digress.

When I told you what happened, you let me know I did the right thing by telling someone. I knew hearing what happened broke your heart and made you uncomfortable, but you listened anyway. But I did not feel I deserved it anymore.

In the end, the other student got away with it because the gym teacher coerced me into not telling the assistant principal the name of the student who did it.

Do you remember when I sang a part from Whitney Houston and Cece Winans’ song “Count On Me” when I shared my fourteenth birthday cake with you and the other teachers? I meant every word that I sang that day. I still do.

When I was a freshman in high school, you and the other teachers gave me a plaque that still hangs on the wall in my house to this day. The words that were etched into it touched my heart and remain in my heart to this day.

Do you remember asking me, when I was in high school, if I had learned anything new since I was in your class? The answer is no. You taught us to read and write on a higher level than sixth grade. By then, I was disillusioned with being in school because all the schools and the school district cared about was passing the state skills exam and the money it would bring. Many schools lost many good teachers behind that.

Do you remember when you and Mrs. Corrigan visited me when I was hospitalized in the neuropsychiatric unit at Robin’s Creek? You asked me what I needed. I only asked for socks. The two of you surprised me with that and more. I thought you would be disappointed but you were anything but. I wanted to tell you the reason they would not let the two of you see me was to punish me for crying. I know it would have helped if I got to see you. I had been heavily medicated and was stressed out due to issues with my mother. I was ashamed to be where I was. I still wanted you to think I was that good girl.

Do you know why I ask you so many questions about yourself? It’s because I think you are one of the most awesome, beautiful, and interesting people I have ever met. I want to know your life story. I never want to intrude on your privacy, so I will leave that decision up to you.

When you and Mrs. Corrigan prayed with me and kept up with me through my breast cancer diagnosis at forty-one, it really touched my heart and soul. I hope you two never forget that. It was one of the things that helped me keep fighting on days when bone pain and exhaustion wanted to take me out. I wanted to be positive and uplifting.

I want you to know the acknowledgement, the listening ear, and the advice you have given me over the years kept me going. It made me feel like you were in my corner. You never made me feel like I was a disappointment because I became disabled due to poor mental health. I know I have called upon you a lot, but I really looked up to you. I still do.

I hope this thirty-two year old assignment finds you well.

Forever Your Professional Learner,

Emmeline Marsden