An Open Letter to an Unnamed Teacher

Usually, when a student writes a letter to a former teacher, it’s a letter of thanks, expressing gratitude for great life lessons learned. Such letters usually open with a story of the Life Changing Event that lead to the Great Lesson. Then, the story is followed by an explanation, a testimony of how that Life Changing Event had a positive impact on the former student, with examples of how that lesson was used in the student’s life. These letters usually end with thanks, and a sentence or two declaring that the former student will always remember what they learned, and how the lesson will stay with them for the rest of their lives.

This is not one of those letters.

The things expressed in this letter do not indicate that you are a bad teacher. Just that perhaps your preferred method of teaching doesn’t quite work for some students. It certainly didn’t work for me.

Your chosen method of motivation is criticism.

Not constructive criticism, not guiding criticism, but plain, negative criticism. You seem to think that by telling students only the things they did wrong, that will inspire them to change and do better. For some students, this works.

High school students are notorious for having self-esteem issues. It’s practically a requirement to be a teenager. And with so much pressure from society and the media and each other, it’s no wonder. There are varying levels of low self-esteem, of course, and some people’s self-esteem is much lower than others. I am one of those people.

Now, I’m not asking you to cater to every single student’s needs and emotional state, and baby those students whose self-esteem is lower. That’s impossible, impractical, and it’s not actually helping anyone. What I am asking you to do is perhaps consider a different way of offering criticism and critique.

One of the things I had the most trouble with in theater was giving a performance my all. I was afraid of looking stupid in front of my peers, and as a result, my acting was very reserved. I didn’t take risks in my performances, I kept everything safe. One teacher I had called this “being afraid to go for it”.

You called it “being a wimp.”

I knew what you meant, of course. I was well aware of my reluctance to take chances. Shoot, I even joked about it. You’d say “And Grace, what’s your problem?” and I’d laughingly reply “I’m a wimp!”

I wasn’t laughing in my head. No, instead I was wondering, “Am I really a wimp?”

After a while, it stopped being a joke, and started to become the truth. Or at least, the truth as I saw it. I started to internalize it, and it became another thing on the list of criticisms running through my head.

You carry too much stuff.

They probably thing you’re annoying.

You don’t fit in here.

You’re a wimp.

It’s not like I could ask you to stop. You were the teacher, the adult. Obviously you knew best. If you said it, it must be true. So I sat there, and you’d say it, and I’d repeat it, and I’d believe it.

“What’s your problem, Gracie?”

“I’m a wimp.”

I’m a wimp.

This kind of criticism, this name calling, can be incredibly hurtful for some students. Beyond the lack of positive reinforcement found in your classroom, calling students names like “wimp”, however jokingly, however well-intentioned, may not always have the desired effect. Sometimes, it may actually have the opposite effect.

I want to tell you (and myself) that I am not a wimp, and that I’ve never been a wimp. I am stronger than you or I give myself credit for.

I’m not grateful for what you said. Calling me a wimp didn’t motivate me. It didn’t inspire me to change, it didn’t teach me to be strong, and it didn’t improve my acting.  Calling me a wimp only caused me to feel worse about myself. Calling me a wimp only gave the tiny little voice of criticism one more thing to whisper in my ear, and I can’t thank you for that. I won’t thank you for that.