Love Letters from Heather

To my former student, Brady.

I know you will not read this. However, I feel compelled to write it anyway.

You know when teachers say they don’t have favourite students? They are lying. I can say that now because I can no longer be fired since I quit teaching 18 years ago. Although professional and held to a high standard, teachers will outwardly be fair and friendly to all students. But, underneath it all, they are people. People who day in and day out are dealing with other people. And due to an incomprehensible algorithm created unconsciously by our personalities—people are drawn to certain others naturally.

It was my first year under contract. I had a Grade 7/8 class with eager yet rambunctious students. And one student in particular stood out. Wire-rimmed glasses and light brown hair—you, Brady, were stuck in that adolescent stage, unpredictable crackling voice, some days a boy and some days a young man.

You were smart and popular. You liked responsibility and achievement—most of the time. But every once in a while a surly, snappy irritated persona emerged, leaving me baffled. What they don’t tell you in teacher’s college is that teaching is more than simply educating. You play the role of parent, friend, social worker, sergeant major, and even police officer at times.

It didn’t take a PhD in psych for me to figure it out. You were not irritable with the male teachers, just me, the female homeroom teacher. A few chats and inquiries brought to light the situation. Your dad was a horse dealer, and occasionally he would travel to the States, leaving you at home with your stepmom and baby half-sister. This event appeared to leave you resentful.

Interestingly but not surprisingly, these trips always coincided with your misplaced anger toward me. After discussions with teachers who knew you and your family, it became apparent to me that maybe you felt somewhat displaced by your relatively new family situation.

The school year continued, and so did this pattern. I always knew when your dad was away. I would simply ask during first recess, “So where is your dad now?” and you would answer “Texas, Illinois, or wherever.”

Graduation rolled around and you arrived suited and booted, untied tie in hand. I saw the panic and disappointment in your demeanour. “I don’t know how to tie this,” you said.

I didn’t either. The principal did, though.

I didn’t say it, but it hung unsaid in the air: why didn’t your dad help you?

But you had been dropped off by your father. It was his birthday and he and your stepmom were having a night on the town. Your mother didn’t show either. I was gutted for you.

After the dance ended, a smelly gym filled with crazed thirteen-year-olds, the students dissipated as parents came to retrieve their sweaty, adrenaline-soaked children…until one kid remained. The last one to be picked up. It was you, Brady. All the intermediate teachers sat in the parking lot with you, chatting. It was relaxed and filled with a quiet familiarity, a comfort that maybe you only had at school.

The last memory I have of you is you getting into the taxi that arrived late with your dad and stepmom. It was obvious they had celebrated far too much to drive. That is the last time I saw you.

Seven years later, I routinely sat in the staff room before the school day began. I was now teaching special education, a class of mostly medicated ADHD boys who were deemed the archaic and horrible label of having a “specific learning disability.” Basically, they were students of average or above intelligence who, for some reason, had difficulty in one area of learning such as language or math.

The grade 2 teacher who had probably taught at this school for at least 30 years pulled up a chair beside me and spoke into one ear nonchalantly. “Did you know Brady?”

“Yes, he was in my class.”

“This weekend he had a friend drive him up to his dad’s cottage. He stuck a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”

She then walked away, and the bell rang immediately.

Do you know how hard this was for me, Brady? Have you any idea? The room was spinning. I could barely breathe. I needed to process, but instead I got up, walked into my class of six wily students, sang “O Canada,” and took attendance.

That night I went home and dug out some photos I took of my class that year. I found three or four pictures with you in them. I put them neatly into an envelope and went to the funeral home for visitation. I recognized your dad immediately. He looked so withered, sitting there with your stepmom and sister on the front seats of the funeral home, facing your closed casket.

I introduced myself. Your dad said he remembered me. I handed him the photos and told him I was sorry for his loss.

The funeral was the next day. At first, I had planned to go. However, when I got home and stared at my own son, who was slightly younger than you were when I met you, I realized I had a charge to keep. I decided in that moment that I would spend the day with him instead. We went to the park and played catch. It was the right thing to do.

My own son’s adopted father would also find something else to do on the night of his son’s grade 8 and high school graduations. It broke my heart, too. I thought of you. I was so grateful for the supportive family I have, who stepped up to fill that void, to be that voice, to clap the loudest, to be the cheerleaders, to be there to tie that tie. I wish you had an army of extended family and friends to have been there for you.

Brady, I am sorry I couldn’t do more for you. I am devastated that you experienced such excruciating emotional pain, and I am deeply saddened that there wasn’t someone who could have helped you.

You made a deep impression on me during that year you were my student, and I am sure the world is a better place because of the 20 years you walked it.

Rest easy, son.

Ms. Down