An Open Letter To My High School Psychology Teacher

Dearest Psychology Teacher,

I recently looked you up on Facebook. I'm not sure why. I suppose when a teacher tells a promising young student, "you will never amount to a whole lot," it sticks with that student long after leaving the treacherous halls of high school behind. Halls you helped make treacherous for a young, troubled teenager trying to make sense of her parents' divorce. 

Yes, I did go to that community college you repeatedly told me I would drop out of. I received two degrees. Two. And did so well in my Psychology class there that I didn't even have to take the final because the teacher said there was no need to. 

Yes, I did go on to a university, majoring in Accounting. I also took a few Psychology classes there. All A's. I guess I probably did well because I was no longer a young woman trying to figure her life out; instead, I was a young woman working on making a better life for herself.

As I was on my way to a meeting in May, those terrible words you spoke over me nearly 7 1/2 years ago, came flooding back. 

"You will never amount to a whole lot."

They came flooding back as I drove down the highway, thanking God for the numerous teaching jobs I consider my calling in this life.

Listen, I know I wasn't the best student. 

And though I'd like to blame you for not encouraging me and instead constantly criticizing, I'll take all the blame for why I didn't care to do well in your class. 

I'll take the blame for not reading my book because regardless of how much I studied, you were always disappointed with my test scores.

I'll take the blame for never paying attention because you used to make me feel bad about myself and I had a hard time listening to someone who didn't like me.

I'll take the blame for every time I spoke out of turn because I was screaming out for attention and you missed it. You missed it because you were too busy putting me down.

I'll take the blame for every time I was late to your class because I knew you would make several comments about it during class. And my friends would tell me it made you look bad.

But I cannot, and never will, take the blame for you ill-timed, unnecessary words that exposed how you really felt about me. The ones that said, "I hope you fail because you are worth nothing to me."

Dearest Psychology Teacher, I can tell you that my worth has never been and will never be based on your thoughts of me. 

I knew it then and I still know it now.

As a young woman who accidentally fell into a teaching job, I know that I will never be a teacher like you. I will never choose to put down a student regardless of how I feel about them. 

Because I understand that the first job of a teacher is not to "teach" but to love. 

It's to love your broken students just as much and your whole ones. 

It's to love every person's unique personality regardless of how difficult they may be.

It's to love to build up, encourage and give confidence to a room full of people who need you, who need your skills, and who need your patience.

It's to love when the job is going well and to really love it when it's not.

It's to love handing your students a certificate of completion with your signature on it knowing that you helped them reach something they could not have attained without you. 

You failed me terribly, teacher. 

And it's taken me a long time to make sense of it. To try to understand your side of things.

But here's the thing: I simply don't. 

I don't understand why you chose to wound me instead of teach me.

I don't understand why you chose to say harsh words when edifying ones were needed.

I don't understand why you used your personal life as an excuse for being mean.

I only understand that you are human and you have to live with your choices.

My hope is that you are finally in a place where you are not allowing your feelings to affect the way you teach a room full of eager students who need you. Not just your knowledge, but your love.

Dearest Psychology Teacher, you have a lot to offer every person who walks through your classroom door. 

Don't throw it all away. 

Don't make the same mistake twice.