An Open Letter to Kindness

This letter is written to my 2nd grade elementary school teacher. I have been intending to write her for years but have convinced myself to first attend to far less meaningful pursuits that have neither praised nor thanked the soul work of many wonderful people.

Let me preface by saying that I was perhaps a difficult child, full of vim and vigor. But I was lovable, dadgumit. Mom used to recount stories of teachers who after going over my academic performance for parent/teacher conferences would clear their throats and shift uncomfortably in their seat...

"Amanda, while being sweet and loving, tends to be a bit disruptive and... busy."

Translation:  "I've wanted to wail on your child but the law won't let me."

Paying attention to instructions or following directions were merely suggestions as I absorbed and dialoged with the world around me. This meant that at times, in my busy, confused little mind, I felt misunderstood by teachers.

But not by all, thankfully. 

To Kindness,

I have chided myself for not openly thanking others for the big and small ways they have enriched my life. It has been my intention for some time to recount for you a few memories from my early years in elementary school. Admittedly, some were spent in a corner and occasionally outside on the line but most of them were very fond memories of which you were most certainly a part of.

What I recall most vividly about you was your intangible kindness. We somehow believe that children are unable to fully understand the world around them in the way adults do, but speaking as a former child, I know that is not true. They just gather information differently. While critical thinking and a ready vocabulary in which to express themselves are years away, we absorb and thus process our environment by observation and by feeling. 

I knew that you loved me (us) in my core and sometimes in spite of it. You were patient. You allowed us to believe that you enjoyed us, even the naughty ones. 

As a 7 year old girl, "older" women (or ladies with pierced ears) were worthy of honor and deference in my book. You were one of them with your hair curled and smelling of baby powder. Top that off with the fact that you had swirly handwriting that I tried to imitate at home, my hand clutching a Husky pencil, tongue poking out the corner of my mouth in rapt concentration. And when you sang, you had a distinct vibrato which I also immitaed at home. In my closet. With my tape recorder unmercifully recording. 

At the end of the day, you were simply open to use your god-given gifts. We all have gifts, some more immediately consequential than others. The difference being that (little) people were being affirmed and approved of in such enriching ways. So much of life communicates the opposite: we are too much, too little, too insignificant to handle. That's why it's been nearly 30 years and I can still recall your influence in ways not shared with many others.

So, I thank you for this narrative, a loving narrative, a better narrative. 

With gratitude,

Amanda