I bet you had no idea. I bet you walked into work as you do every morning, and pictured another long day. Another day dealing with hectic schedules, and overly dramatic middle schoolers. You had no idea you were about to inspire someone, even though the rest of the class could have cared less.
Our assignment was simple, write about your first love. Strange, I thought to myself. Being in seventh grade, could I really declare that I had ever had a real love yet? I may have fudged the assignment and exaggerated a little too much, but I still learned something important that day.
I bet you didn’t realize what your assignment did to me. You told me to write with my heart, not my mind. I didn’t even process the meaning of that until I was well into my high school years, but eventually, I got it. You made me realize that I have a voice, and I don’t need to be some echo in the crowd. You helped me to understand that my life is a story I am able to tell other people. I can still remember the sternness in your voice when people didn’t care. You said something that has always stuck with me, you said, “some people don’t have the freedom to say what they want to.” I never forgot that.
Writing isn’t something everyone grows to love, and it’s certainly not something that comes easily to each person who sits down with a blank paper and fresh pen. Writing takes effort. It takes writing and re-writing, and editing, and changing your whole story four times until each sentence represents exactly what you want it to. Writing is colorful. It’s expressive, and it has power. It has meaning. You taught me how to use the paper to paint my words, carefully like brush strokes. Patiently. Thoughts don’t always flow through your brain, but eventually they come down like a waterfall and your fingers are typing three hundred words a minute, and your hand is cramping up, but you can’t stop because you’re creating your own masterpiece. And you’re excited about it. You taught me to be excited about it.
I remember the frustration I felt when I’d get papers back with bad grades. What am I doing wrong? I thought to myself. You never gave up on my writing, I think maybe you saw something in me that I didn’t necessarily see in myself at the time. That’s what teachers do though, they see that light at the end of the tunnel and guide you through the dark until you’re standing in the sunlight, shining on your own. You read us a story, I remember when you finished reading it I was absolutely inspired by the voice, and sophistication of the writing. You looked at us and said, “the girl who wrote this is 15 years old.” Inspiration flowed through me. That’s when I understood what you didn’t even have to say. I didn’t have to be old, I didn’t have to know a strenuous vocabulary of big words. All I had to do was believe in myself, and trust the words I put on the page in front of me. I had to write, to speak to people. I had to paint a picture in black and white.
You may not even remember who I am, you’ve had so many students. But I remember you because even in seventh grade, you helped me see the potential I had. You taught me that in order to be a writer, all I had to do was write because there is no greater story to tell than your own.