Two Letters for Alicia: A message of hope to reawaken her smile

Posted on Jan 21 2010 at 12:51 PM


By Mollie Dickson

7:00 AM. I unlock my classroom, sit down at my desk, and pull out my stationary. Before checking my email, before sifting through papers, before twisting open the thermos lid to sip my sweet morning caffeine, I write a letter:

Alicia,
I want to let you know that you've been on my mind a lot this week.
I cannot describe how refreshing it was to start the new trimester with you in my class. Your passion, independence, strength, and willingness to expose your heart are an inspiration to me, as you model confidence and individuality for your peers. Your smile, energy, and love for writing are contagious... I guess I just want you to know how much your presence brightens my day and keeps me inspired to teach.
That is why I wanted to check in with you—it breaks my heart to see you upset—I hope you feel comfortable coming to me for support. I am here to talk (or to just sit and listen) whenever. So please know that this invitation is always open.
In the meantime, I hope you are able to use writing as a way to reflect on life's present circumstances and grow—move forward from it. Because whether you keep your writing to yourself now, or feel compelled to share, I have no doubt that you will impact the lives of those who read your work. Not everyone can so eloquently capture complex emotions and convey them through the art of writing. You can. My wish for you is to do just that. You, and everyone who comes into contact with you, will be better because of it. I know I am.
Thank you for the amazing young woman you are and the voice you bring to our classroom and the world.
All the best,
~Ms. Dickson

I crease it down the center, slip it into a cream envelope, and write Alicia in large, calligraphy letters. And for a moment, I hold it my hand—simply staring—willing it to make a difference in her day. Not sure if it can.

7:55 hits and the kids begin rolling in; without a second to linger, my day jumps into action. Not until 3rd period prep do I make it downstairs to check my mailbox. Shuffling through the usual—forms for setting goals, information regarding measures 66&67, a flyer for next month’s fundraiser—and one more. A white envelope addressed to me, with Creative Communications decorated along the top. Expecting to read about some great offer—I mean opportunity—for a teacher to spend her money, I rip it open, ready to skim and slip it into the recycling. But as my eye catches the first line, I stop. Literally jaw-dropped, eyes-wide, a high-pitched squeal bursts through my lungs. I must look ridiculous murmuring to myself, “No way! Aaaahhhh! Oh my gosh! Alicia!!” but no one is around to witness. Without hesitating, I race down the hall to the 8th grade wing, peering into classrooms until I spot her. And disregarding first-year teacher etiquette, I barge in (apologizing for the interruption) and ask to borrow Alicia for two minutes. Her face gives the familiar sigh and discreet roll-of-the-eyes, as it is nowhere out the ordinary for her to be called out and disciplined.

(You see… Alicia’s the tough girl. The hard exterior. The voice complaining that, all the teachers hate me. A broken life at home. A promise that she’ll get out of this town as soon as she can. …But Alicia and I have made a connection. After joining my creative writing class, she came in for an hour after school to vent, discuss life, question relationships, and share her writing with me. It was one poem, “Running,” that caught my eye. I told her, let’s publish this. Having never considered her writing worthy of an outside audience, she was intrigued. We went online, created an account, and done—her first submission to a poetry contest—quite an accomplishment. Because the truth is, we didn’t do it to win it; the act of entering was enough. With thousands of entries across the United States, and less than half chosen for publication, we weren’t exactly waiting around to hear back.)
 

But now here I am—one month later—calling her out of class, and that look of disappointment on her face that cries, What? Now you too?

We step outside and my face lights up as I pass her the envelope. Skeptical, she squints at the letter in her hands. Then everything changes. For the first time all week, Alicia’s eyes awaken. Beaming, she looks back at me, “I won?!” We hug and I wish I could put this moment on pause—for it’s as if we have stepped out of reality—I would have to rewind and watch it all over again to let it fully sink in. My words: “Alicia, I’m so proud of you. You’re a published writer!” cannot come close to expressing our joy in this moment. And truly, life could not have picked a more perfect moment to shine on this young girl. Feeling lost and alone, she desperately needed this rejuvenating message of hope. Reassurance. Something to believe in: herself.

And the best part… Alicia’s smile is back.

 

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