I saw something recently that reminded me of an English teacher I had in Middle School. She was a popular teacher, and everyone couldn’t wait to be in her class, including me. However, when I finally got there, things weren’t as great as I thought they would be.

The teacher seemed to gravitate towards the popular students and showed them more attention. I was not with the popular crowd but had my own group of friends. I was a little more shy back then, but I had started to come out of my shell a little. 

The teacher assigned us a poetry assignment where we had to talk about ourselves in the poem. I had never written a poem and wasn’t great at rhyming words, but the teacher said we didn’t have to make everything rhyme, so I didn’t. Everyone read their poems to the class, and when we were done, the teacher handed out candy to everyone who she said had done a good job. Everyone got candy except me. That stuck with me.

I later had an English class in college where we had to write an ironic poem. I was like, oh boy, here we go again… I hate poetry! Then something went off in my brain, “That’s perfect!” I ended up writing an ironic poem about this story, titled “I Hate Poetry”. My professor actually submitted it for publication, and it was published.

This same teacher, later, took me into another room and chewed me out because I had not completed an assignment. The teacher said that even another student whose mother had been shot in the leg had managed to complete the assignment. What was my excuse? What was wrong with me?

I thought, if she only understood. I tried to explain, but I didn’t know exactly what it was or how to put it into words.

At the time, I was dealing with a lot of abuse and neglect at home by my parents. I also had two younger brothers whom I was trying to protect and take care of. Honestly, I was just trying to get through the day without falling apart, and I didn’t really have much support. I didn’t have the words for any of this, though, so from the outside, it probably just looked like I wasn’t trying hard enough.

And that’s the point.

When you’re going through something heavy, it doesn’t always look that way.

Sometimes it looks like not turning in an assignment, not participating, not leaving the house, or not doing things that are “simple” and that everyone else can do just fine. When this teacher compared me to another student and implied that I just didn’t have a good enough reason, it made me feel invalidated.  

I later brought to her attention a couple of bullies in the class next to us who were making some very rude comments about me. This teacher did absolutely nothing, which again made me feel like my experience didn’t matter.

These actions reinforced:

·       If your struggle isn’t obvious, it must not be real.

·       If someone else has it worse, yours doesn’t matter.

·       If you can’t articulate it clearly, don’t expect anyone to understand.

This was a difficult thing to carry, especially as a kid.

What’s interesting is that I had another teacher at the same school who was the complete opposite. He was an older gentleman who taught math and science. My dad would drop me off really early on his way to work. This teacher was always there and let some of the other early students and me into his classroom to hang out. He would chat with us and was very friendly and supportive. This made a bigger difference for me than anything the other teacher did. I really appreciated that teacher’s kindness.

It’s easy to think that moments like a missed assignment, a comment in class, or not getting candy are small or shouldn’t matter, but when you’re already dealing with so much, every little thing can become the straw that broke the camel’s back. It all adds up.

But so does kindness.

I still think of that other teacher. He didn’t know everything I was going through, and he never asked me to explain myself. He just treated me like I mattered. I sit here and try to come up with the words to describe how much that meant to me, but I can’t. Maybe if I were more poetic, but as we all know, I hate poetry!

The truth is, not everyone can truly see you or what you’re going through, but that does not invalidate it. If someone is like that, don’t waste your time on them. Find your tribe of people who get it and get you. They’ll be able to offer more support.

I don’t carry this with me anymore, and I've chosen to be someone who tries to see more deeply and isn't so judgmental.

That teacher didn't break me. She just gave me better material.

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