Moving On

So I haven't posted in a really long time...no biggie...no one even knows about this blog...though that may change as I'm thinking about linking it to my facebook. It's so easy to get into and addicted to another tech thing when school is almost over and I'm between obsessions...

I thought it fitting, after reading a passionate blog from one of my friends, to "say the unsayable." This is something I do with my creative writing students each year as we mine different writing territories. We simply write a letter to someone and tell them something we couldn't really say for any myriad of reasons. Here's mine. Bear in mind, I'm free-writing and it could use some work (since this is public and I'd like to seem 1/2 professional, the name has been omitted).

Dear *,

I'd like to say you stole 8 years from me. Eight years. This is the sum total of my teaching career. In my most bitter times you have been a great scapegoat. However, as I face the reality of leaving you in just six short days, I am starting to see you for what you are: a pathetic waste of so much of my energy.

When I started teaching I was naive. I firmly resolved to change lives, to be the best possible, to befriend colleagues and share, to change the world. You helped quash that and I let you.

When I think of all the things I could have been, but haven't become, I'd like to get mad at you, but I can't. You didn't make me pause and think twice, you didn't stop me from doing what I wanted, you only intimidated me and made me believe you held power over me. When I think of all the times I said, "I can't" because of you, I'm so angry. When I think of those four new young, excited teachers you'll be responsible for doing the same to, I sigh. I hope they have more strength, more worldliness, and thicker skin.

And while I am finally ready to take responsibility for the decisions I made all those years. The decisions I made to let you get to me, to let you steal my sleep, my thunder, my enthusiasm, my dedication. The times I granted you permission to change me, to make me change myself, I am ready to tell you the truth, what I really think. So here it goes:

Shame on you. How insecure do you have to be with yourself, with your talents, with your position, that you have to force a well-meaning teacher to change herself to suit you? What difference does it make how I teach? Does it change your productivity if I read a story you don't? If my kids have fun in my class, but dread yours, does it make you a worse teacher? Since when are your composition rules the only ones? If I read up on current theory and embrace it, teach it, live it, does it really hurt you? Must you demean me to your students to make your rules more correct?

How dare you talk about me to students! In what world do you need to convince them you're better. Not every kid will love you. Not every kid will love me. It's not some giant popularity contest and how pathetic and insecure are you that you have to make it one? I am here to teach, to be there for kids. Why are you here?

But enough about you. As I said, I have wasted too much time on you and you are pathetic. Oh, yes it's cathartic to dis you, but as many have pointed out, it's simply not worth it. Besides, I don't need any more purgatory hours because of things I've said about you.

But I will say this: Thank you. Thank you for being such a beast and teaching me that with all enthusiasm there should be temperance. As Friar Laurence says, "These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, Which as they kiss consume." You helped teach me the true meaning of these words. Thank you for teaching me the value of friendship at work. I never would have needed to make such deep and lasting connections if you hadn't made work such an unbearable place. My friends became my friends because I needed to feel happiness at work and they let me. Thank you for showing me just how work shouldn't be so I will appreciate a new position, one in which colleagues share, don't feel threatened by greatness, and enjoy their lives. I will flourish because I will appreciate what I have never had.

I pray for you. I pray that you one day wake up and say, "I'm sorry." That you one day realize that a little power is a dangerous and great thing. And that you will atone for what you have done to me by never repeating it with anyone else. I know this may be a lot to ask. Hell, it's probably impossible, but if there's one thing you will never take from me it is my optimism. In eight years, hope, the thing Pandora unleashed last, will never be stripped from my grasp.

And so, I'm done. I didn't say all that I wanted, but I said what needed to be said for now. I will be the bigger person and wish you well. I will genuinely hope life gets less sad and pathetic for you and I will wish the new department tremendous new beginnings.

As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord and I will serve the lions. I hope to be like Daniel. You have already taught me how to emerge from the den unscathed. Life can only get better for me. I hope it can for you, too.

Sincerely,

Wendy