Dear Mr. Roe,

It’s past time I thanked you, dear sixth grade teacher, for being there for me, during a time when my life was starting to spin out of control. You were my first male teacher, and boy, did I need a positive male role model in my life. You weren’t much to look at— big nose, receding hairline (a redhead) and you were OLD. I mean, my God, you were 36 and I was 11—too old to be my boyfriend, but not too old to be my father figure.

You didn’t play favorites–it wasn’t like I was your pet or anything—but you seemed to intuitively know to treat me a little differently. Like the phase we girls went through, signing our homework and our blackboard work with our boyfriends’ names, as if we were married to them. For instance, I was Mrs. Roger Cole. Now I’m sure that was news to Mr. Roger Cole. We had a “thing” in fourth grade, but I suspect he had moved on by the sixth grade. But I hadn’t, and he was the only husband I had. I had to keep up with the Jones’s—Mrs. Jones that is.

Well, you got tired of trying to figure out who Mrs. So-and-So was, so you told us girls we had to use our real names on the blackboard and on homework. No problem. The next time I used the blackboard, I wrote “Terri Sue Hickman.” My real name was Maureen Hickman, but I absolutely didn’t like, or own, any part of that name. Terri Sue was who I was. Of course, some of the other girls narced on me, pointing out I didn’t use my own name, but you spared me any further humiliation and let it stand. Fifty-four years later, I still remember that. You seemed to understand I couldn’t handle being myself.

Remember the time you praised me in front of the class? I’m not real clear on the details, but you commended me for getting one of the highest test scores or maybe report cards—can’t remember—doesn’t matter. Because you made me feel special when you pointed out that I had twice missed two weeks of school in as many consecutive six-week grading periods, and still managed to (fill in the blank.) The details are sketchy but I remember distinctly how I felt.

And that grammar contest I won. (You’d never believe it now!) It was a six-week period when you kept a chart of how many grammatical errors we made. I was a shoo-in, or so I thought. My mom had drilled proper grammar into my head from the day I was born. But I hadn’t factored in Joyce Stokes. Joyce had a much worse life than I did, and never talked, so how could I EVER catch her making a grammatical error?! I complained to you. It wasn’t fair, I said. I had one checkmark on the chart and Joyce had none. You smiled benignly, but didn’t discipline her for not talking more. Sigh. But I got her. I GOT her. I confronted her and asked her why she didn’t talk—probably told her it wasn’t fair. Well, here’s the best part! She said, “Because I don’t want to say any of them words.” She said “them”! Bingo! We were even! I rushed over to you and gleefully told you about Joyce’s error and you promptly put a checkmark by her name. Sweet! Joyce and I won some kind of pencil set, I believe. But it didn’t matter what the prize was—I won! You praised me. And that’s all that mattered.

Do you remember the time (or possibly times) when my cousin, Mark, and I threw dirt clods at you while you were gardening?! I was so excited to find out you were a neighbor to my aunt and uncle in Coffeen. You had a huge garden and we had to really hurl them far to hit you. Actually, I’m not sure we ever hit you, but it’s the thought that counts. And the thought was I adored you and desperately wanted your attention, and if it took throwing dirt at you to get it, then by God, it was worth it. I suspect I annoyed you more than endeared myself to you, but you never let on.

So, even though there’s a good chance you’re dead, I hope you get this message—and know how you made a difference in my life. You probably didn’t even realize it. I’m sorry I waited so late to tell you. And I hope you forgive me for throwing dirt at you. You always dirt the one you love… (Forgive me for that also.)

Your favorite student,

Maureen