Dear abusive teachers,
Thank you. Thank you for showing me what I want to do for the rest of my life. Thank you for allowing me to see just how wicked a person can be. Thank you for showing me how little anger accomplishes. Thank you for showing me why I need to be a teacher.
When I hear words like "retard" or "stupid," all I think of are the few memories that I have of your classroom. You caused me mental pain that very few have been able to inflict. I still get scared when someone puts a hand on my shoulder, because I fear they will strike me as you did. I still get flashbacks of the time you threw that boy's head in a mini-fridge for misusing the word "cool."
We, as students, knew that everything you did was wrong, but we were scared to say anything, for fear of outrage. Most people can remember and tell of times when a teacher's lessons sent shivers down their spines. I can tell stories of when my teacher's cold hands down my back sent shivers down my spine.
Wadded up newspapers in the garbage can or on the desk send memories and nightmares of the embarrassing sound of your papers coming down on my head. It wasn't about the physical damage; I didn't care about that. It was the words that you fired at me as you delivered your punishment. "Stupid." "Can you just be quiet for once?" I'll be the first to say that I raise hell in your class, but no more than anyone else, no more than any of your "favorites."
To be a teacher means to be able to teach all students. This means more than the kids who are perfect who can simply fold their hands in their laps and put shiny apples on their desks while whipping through the warm up exercise in a matter of minutes. This means being able to teach the students who struggle to pay attention to you sometimes, as well as the students who need help with more than one math fact per worksheet. Some of us who were "bad" in your mind could have been "good," had you allowed us the opportunity to be.
The worst thing about writing this is that I have never learned more in any class I have taken through this first year of college. You had the potential to be "good" but you chose to be bad. You could have been the teacher who showed me how important education was. You could have been a champion of the public school system. Instead, you chose to be mean. You chose to kick that chair into my knees when I wouldn't sit still. You are the reason I struggle to trust sometimes.
You are the reason why I need to teach. You are the reason why the education system is so messed up. You are the reason why public education is failing. Your words discourage progress. I feel sorry for your students, and I feel sorry for you. I can only hope retirement has brought you some level of respect.
Sincerely,
The "worst" one
