My favorite teachers have always been those whose classes I enjoyed and those whose classes I excelled in. The classes which I did not do well in, I did not like the teachers. I think it was my way of finding someone to blame for my lack of motivation.
In the past, I heard about you and the kind of teacher that you were. A lot of my classmates and friends who had sat in your class spoke of you as if you were this scary monster whose class I was bound to fail.
There I was starting my first semester of 11th grade; I was ready to dislike you from the very first day. Your classroom was immaculate and organized, and you appeared to be this very serious person who could not take a joke.
"She dresses nicely, though," I remember whispering to myself. The teaching began, and I already hated you -- just like I predicted I would. "Why does she give so much work?"
Your class was filled with rigorous work; so many things that had to be done I just couldn't keep up. Well at least that's what it felt like but I reality I was learning so much.
Eleventh grade suddenly became difficult for me. It wasn't your class. It wasn't anyone's class. I started to find myself falling into this dark whole of sad feelings and no desire to do anything at all.
It was as if my motivation and good spirit were completely taken away from me. I did not do any work for any class. My grades continued to go further down, and I did not do anything about it. I did not know what to do because I had no idea what was it that was making me feel that way.
"Karla, step into my office," you said, your office being the front corner of the classroom where you stood to watch everyone work. It wasn't the first time; you repeatedly pulled me aside to talk to me about my grades and missing work.
You wouldn't stop. Always keep telling me to bring in my work, and it didn't matter if it was late, you just wanted me to do it. It felt like you did not want me to fail. It felt like you cared.
Nobody bothered to ask what was wrong; instead, it was always just you have bad grades, and we're going to tell your mom. Until one day sitting I was in your class, everyone was quietly working on some Freud, or something like that, and I was staring into the distance not doing my work, just lost.
You slipped a post-it note, and inside it said: "Is everything okay?" The note had completely thrown me off. I did not expect the teacher that I highly dislike (for no legitimate reason at all, by the way) to care a single bit about me.
On the same post-it note, I wrote back that I was going through a rough time, and you wrote back that sometimes it was okay to talk about it and that I could talk with you if I really wanted to.
I never spoke to you about it, but that small gesture, that little note on a post-it made me feel so much better. I still cannot comprehend how such a small gesture made me feel better and made me realize that you cared and that whatever I was going through I didn't have to go through it alone.
I think it is safe to say that, over time, I have built a pretty good relationship with you. From making watch the best show ever ("30 Rock"), joining in my excitement for the new season of "Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt" (you think you're so smart because you were bit by a cockroach that crawled out of a dictionary), being my nail twin (I'll never forget how we got to perfectly match that light pink towards the end of senior year), keeping up with me and how college is going for me, to giving me much needed advice on what specific path I should take in my developing career in education. I could not be more thankful for you.
Thank you for everything, Ms. Shoup! I am so thankful for you, and I have to say that I still don't like you...I love you!
