Dearest Room 215,

The start of this school year marks the second year that I will not walk through your door with books stacked up high, nearly grazing my chin. The second year that I will not walk down the hallway, praying not to come face-to-face with your door as someone else scampers from the room and wondering what magic is taking place beyond what I can see inside of your walls, because I know it happens. The magic does not simply stop at the scrawling of the pen or the perfection of a poem, and believe it or not, it does not just stop at you.

I remember the first day that you welcomed me. Sophomore year. Creative Writing. You did not offer a single familiar face. I was scared; I never liked change. I did not like being far from the girls that I had been giggling and gossiping with since seventh grade and I did not like the aurora that poured out of your colorful walls, seeping into my skin and telling me that change was coming. I did not like that feeling, so I sat in the back row near the other girl whose outfit looked the most similar to mine and settled in with my Bic pen and shiny blue notebook. I remember writing that first day, that sophomore year was like a Tuesday. There was nothing quite special about it. It was not the beginning, it was not the year to rejoice in prom, and it was not the end, therefore it was Tuesday, and it was not special to me. And just like that, you came spiraling at me and I began to write.

I remember the last day that you welcomed me. Senior year. Creative Writing Workshop. I would miss my classmates and the way that I could tell from a single sentence or stanza which one of my new friends was the author. I was sad; I never liked change, I still did not like change. I wanted my moments with you to reach infinity. I did not like that feeling, the feeling of the end, so I sat in the front row next to the guy, with the hair like drapes, perpetually slipping to cover his eyes as he squinted close to his black, spiral-bound notebook, I never would have spoken to him if it weren't for you, Room 215. To my left, sat the girl who was fighting the fiercest of battles. On that last day, I, the girl who was once terrified to raise her hand to ask to use the bathroom during class, approached the squeaky black podium for the last time to share my work with you. I do not remember what poem or story I read. I remember that my hands were still shaking and I remember that my cheeks still became hot the moment I began to move my lips. I remember that I was no longer searching for approval but simply searching to share my thoughts. It was the end, and therefore maybe it was like a Friday, and it was the most special to me.

But I ponder, is it possible for an environment or an atmosphere to evoke this much change from a person? Doubtful. I believe we change for the things most similar to ourselves, other human beings and perhaps whether we change for them or because of them does not matter. My apologies, Room 215, but I do believe that I owe thanks to your ferocious leader Ms. Strout. While my eyes remained engaged by your vibrant wall coverings, past student successes and literary encouragements, my ears remained captured by Ms. Strout's gentle words: her soft, yet meticulous praises and recommendations. Her sense of humor and passion for life resounded from your walls. She is the reason that while inside your walls, it did not matter that I scored a 74 on my latest Calculus exam or that I did not start every game on the field hockey field. Suddenly, it only mattered that I craft a piece of work to capture my feelings and that I made someone else smile that day. Even amongst my hatred for change, I evolved into a person that I could love.

Ms. Strout loves to tell her students that they are "gems." This is not just a term that she uses aimlessly to describe or compliment, it may be the highest honor to earn from such a spectacular woman, yet, it is used commonly within your walls and this fact makes me believe that Ms. Strout and yourself are, in fact, gem curators. Thank you both for that, for showing me that I can sparkle.

Room 215, you taught me everyday how to string together words into stanzas and paragraphs and stories and truth, but I still do not think I can describe how much you mean to me in a single sentence. Perhaps the most important lesson I learned among your walls is that life is not static and that it will always be changing. This is captured perfectly in Ms. Strout's patient reminder at the beginning of each class to "open to a clean page."

I wish you all of the very best.

Love always,

One of your many thankful students