Should I Send It?

Dear Mrs. Lowell,

I still remember my first day of high school. I was so nervous and excited—to me, my life was finally beginning, and I spent hours choosing an outfit for the big day and deciding how to wear my hair. I was especially excited about your class, ninth grade English. It included creative writing, something I enjoyed, and I couldn’t wait to find out what you thought of my work.

You spent most of that first class going over your rules. You had a lot of rules, several pages of them in fact, and it was hard to remember everything you said. At the end of class, the principal began reading announcements over the PA system. I couldn’t find my schedule, and nervously turned to a girl behind me to ask her where we were supposed to go next. When the announcements ended, you marched up to my desk, opened your mouth, and ROARED.

“I TOLD YOU NOT TO TALK DURING ANNOUNCEMENTS! WHEN I TELL YOU NOT TO DO SOMETHING, I EXPECT YOU TO OBEY ME!” The class was stunned into silence. You were literally shouting at me at the top of your lungs. Your face was bright red, you were yelling so hard. I sat shocked and humiliated. Your rage was totally inappropriate to the situation. “NO TALKING DURING THE ANNOUNCEMENTS! YOU WILL LISTEN TO WHAT I SAY AND YOU WILL DO IT OR FACE THE CONSEQUENCES!” I sort of wanted to cry, but I didn’t. The bell rang and I scooted out of there, wondering if you were having a really bad day.

Apparently, you were having a bad year, because things only went downhill from there.

Your class quickly became the one I dreaded. It was like you had the evil beam of your radar turned onto me, and me alone. If I talked, you yelled. If I coughed, you yelled. If I blinked my eyes, you yelled. It was ridiculous. If you had done it now, I wouldn’t have stood for it, but back then, I was only fourteen. I had no frame of reference, and no real experience with handling adult bullies.

The thing was, Mrs. Lowell, that I was a good student, and a pretty polite one too. I talked too much sometimes, but that was about the extent of it. I was having a hard time in ninth grade. A new group of cool kids had come onto the scene and I was struggling to figure out where I fit in. Many of them were in that class. You continually ridiculed me in front of them. You even seated me across the room from everyone else in the class, three empty rows between us, putting me in front of the other outcast, a boy with a behavioral disorder. He spent the year pulling my hair, pinching me, and whispering the nastiest things I had ever heard. I asked over and over again to sit somewhere else. I hadn’t done anything to deserve my punishment. You refused. Meanwhile, you let the other kids sit where they wanted, talk during class, and laugh as loud as they pleased. When I would turn around and tell the guy behind me to stop bothering me, however, you yelled.