To The Woman Who Bullied Me When I Was Just A Child,

I was only 13 years old when you decided to take out whatever anger you possessed in this world out on me. Merely a child frightened by my surroundings and peers who continuously harassed me in front of your own eyes and you did nothing to help. I don’t know what I ever did for you to take me as an easy target, but you did. Do you remember who I am? Or was I just another victim of yours?

You were my first period teacher and used my errors in writing as examples for my class. You hated my tendency to do run on sentences, even though I found myself inspired by authors such as Faulkner that was known for that capability. Each day you would line us up to grade our daily paragraphs of our morning readings and sign off each of my classmates papers without reading it over even once. You simply made a red check on each paper until I stood beside you, nearly half your height. Do you remember standing more erect when I was at your side to grade my work? How you would smile widely before taking that red pen across my entry? Every single mistake was boasted to my classmates who would snicker at my misuse of ‘your’ or inability to spell vocabulary words you stressed upon us.

I would become physically ill from this torment. I shook each time I sat in your class, I sat in the corner and tried to cower away from you by any means but you still found my weaknesses. For bigger assignments you would do the same actions mentioned earlier, but would add on distasteful comments that echo in my thoughts even today. Do you recall telling me I was a disappointment to my parents? That there was no point whatsoever in trying so hard in school if I would amount to nothing? Why was I trying? Do you, an instructor to the youth, remember me having a full blown panic attack in class as I stood beside you to continue telling my classmates what I did wrong in a persuasive essay you picked for me while the others had free reigns on their topic?

How about when my mother became involved and you were smart enough to pull me aside into the library where no one can see and gave me specific instructions, “You will tell your mom we get along fine. That you are making this all up.” This continued for a good five minutes as tears poured down my face until you finished with a satisfied, “What will you tell your mom?” I told you boldly I would tell her you wanted me to lie. The face of anger terrified me, but at this point I was aware your actions were no longer criticism. I was not the first child you pushed to the point brink.

Did you know I had to be put on medications because of you? Valium. Your actions put a child, not even a teenager at this point in life, on medications just to function well enough to attend school. Do you recollect how after I met with the school board I was transferred to another school the next day? I always find myself wondering if what you did to me, or any other victim of yours, crosses your mind. I am shocked to think you are a mother and easily put me through so much anguish and trauma. I remain disturbed that you kept your job after all of this.

Do you keep in mind you told me no one would ever read my writing because it was simply trash? Ironic, isn’t it, that there are people out there reading this right now. I find it astonishing that I was published in an anthology for my poetry you described as childish and sloppy.

What I find to be the worst thing at the end of the day is that I couldn’t trust adults for years because of your actions. I can never in my lifetime forgive you for you what you have done. But if I do decide to become a teacher down the line, I can swear to you now, I will never be the woman you are.

Sincerely,