Dear Mrs. Stevens, who told me I could write
You were old and you were mean and you hardly ever smiled – but you did sometimes Mrs. Stevens, and you told me I could write
Your stiffly buttoned Oxford shirts, your mannish, leather Oxford shoes, your giant Oxford dictionary (“just look it up!”) you told me I could write
Sweater ‘round your shoulders in June, you were always so damn cold – so very cold Mrs. Stevens, but still you told me I could write
Your extra sharp page boy, your cats eyes on a chain, your “awkward paragraph here, change it!” is how you told me I could write
Paper skin and tiny pearls, your chick-let teeth your wrinkled, pursing lips
Your demanding “see me after class” your “read The Catcher in the Rye tonight” your “do it over please” and your “write, just write!”
Your 4’11” pacing frame, your red pen bright, your challenging assertions, but then you told me I could write
If I wanted to, I could write
I never liked you, Mrs. Stevens, but that wasn’t the point, was it?
Thank you
A stunning, spot-on description and a beautiful, heartfelt tribute. This brought tears to my eyes. ❤
Thank you Judie. <3 There are so many teachers I remember with fondness...teachers really ARE molding minds, but mostly they have the power to make a child feel "worthwhile" and that can't be measured....ever. xoxo