A Letter to My English Teacher
Dear Ms. Gibson,
Whelp. You were right. It only took me 19 years since I last took your class that I finally figured it out. You probably won’t recall our time together much, but I look back on that time with fondness and shame that I didn’t fully embrace or engage with what you were trying to teach me. I had you my freshman year in Honors English. I copied an assignment in March of that year and I remember the conversation in the hall about how much breaking your trust hurt you more than a blown off piece of homework. And boy howdy will I never ever forget to not call your MRS. Gibson.
I remember you almost three years later when we were together again for AP English. I remember being pissed off at you giving me a B on my creative assignment because I used a store bought crust for an apple pie because my mom never made homemade pie crust. And it lacked a lattice which annoyed you.
I rolled my eyes over your excitement at Christmas as it was time for your annual reading of Wuthering Heights. I thought your defense of Great Expectations was manifucatured. I intentionally only wrote 7 or 9 sentences for our BCRs (if anyone reading this never sat through AP English Comp you had to write exactly eight sentences for a BCR for full credit). I sometimes barely read the books you assigned or intentionally read a page or two enough to get through the round table Socratic Seminars.
And I’m sorry for all of that.
Around Spring Break we sat together as we were going over my third quarter grade. I was happy with managing to do just enough to earn a B- again. You were pissed. You asked me if I actually intended to take the exam. I said I did. You said it was probably going to be a waste of my parent’s money if I didn’t start knuckling down. I laughed and said I’d be fine.
You called me a bullshitting skater, but a damn good one, you clarified. My writing had potential, my analysis was excellent. You challenged me to not blow this off but to pursue. To try, to execute. You were earnest. Now it was my turn to be annoyed.
We never spoke again one on one after that meeting at the end of the third quarter in 2008. I took the test, I scored a five. You knew what you were doing, I was pissed off enough to prove you wrong and I exceeded both of our expectations. I didn’t pursue writing in undergraduate. I became better at skating and made more bad choices.
But a few years ago I started to write a draft that would one day become Neither Lost Nor Found. I didn’t take a shortcut and self-publish a draft that sucked or hybrid with a vanity publisher. I earned a traditional publishing deal like I knew you would want me to strive for. I learned more paying half attention in your class on the third floor in the pink hallway with the windows overlooking the parking lot of Huntingtown High School about craft and story than some of my peers who have spent thousands on for their MFAs. When the pull of AI or ghost writing to just get the damn thing done was loudest: I could smell the wintergreen mint clicking behind your teeth. Hear the way you shuffled index cards while you took notes during assessments and yes, I still start each writing session with a Hershey’s kiss like you taught me just to get the creativity flowing.
In many ways I was lost during our time together. In some ways I still am. But I hope this finds you one day and I hope you might get a chance to read it. I hope one day you’re able to send me pages of your cursive handwritten critique and comments and maybe, we can share another slice of apple pie.
NEITHER LOST NOR FOUND is in part dedicated to you Ms. Gibson.
Sincerely,
Joe Finlayson
(And if anyone knows how to get in touch with her slide into my DMs - thanks)
Taken from the 2008 senior class year book.
