The first time I had your class, I was starting my sophomore year. Your reputation preceded you and I was utterly terrified to be sitting at the front of the class — having a last name that starts with “B” sucks.

I remember that year and that class being particularly stressful because of the work you piled on, the expectations you kept way too high, and the amount of poetry we were required to sift through and interpret. Somehow you made it possible to be wrong when interpreting an abstract piece of work. It’s OK, though, because we all accepted the fact that you were right and we were wrong and life went on.

I remember thinking your class was going to be the first one I would fail but I managed to scrape by the first semester, and after that, you had a student teacher, and I believe that’s the only reason I got an A.

You seemed to despise the fact that some of us strived to achieve A’s and would often tell us to just stop trying so damn hard. B’s were good but not good enough for some of us.

This lead to me developing pretty significant anxiety every time I walked into your class. I would’ve sat at the back but alphabetical seating was your style. I never raised my hand, I never made eye contact, I never questioned you.

Every test day ended with tears and frustration because the anxiety would wipe everything from my mind. Eventually, that year I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder.

And yet, even though I hated your class, I learned so much. I learned quick and efficient note-taking, I learned to scan paragraphs quickly, and I learned how to interpret poetry.

I remember appreciating at the end of the year that I no longer had to be in your class but also how much you had taught us and the importance of not pushing yourselves to the breaking point.

So, when senior year rolled around, I took the hardest English class: your AP Literature class. And I was terrified. It was like a repeat of sophomore year, but harder.

There were only 13 people that signed up for the class. 13 brave souls, the “crème de la crème” of our high school as you called us. That year we read countless classic novels to in order to prepare us for the AP test at the end of the year, some of which are now my favorite books. But the tests still scared me. Thinking about the number of essays we wrote still gives me a little nausea.

You were a terrifying teacher until, at the end of the year, I told you about the anxiety you gave me. You were so concerned about why I never mentioned it. You told me that we could’ve worked out an alternate testing situation or let me have a little more time to take the test.

But all of that didn’t matter to me. What mattered was that you recognized my difficulties, you showed genuine concern, and you showed me in that moment the amount of compassion you had for your students and the love you had for teaching.

So, I want to thank you for making me realize that B’s are not the end of the world. Thank you for showing me compassion and understanding when every other teacher brushed off my concerns. Thank you for helping make me the person I am today.

And thanks for making me love dark chocolate.