If architecture is “frozen music,” an American public middle school building must at least be, I don’t know, a blue Taki crushed under a Crocs heel, which of course has its own melody if you listen closely enough. I am reminded of T.S. Eliot’s intonation about “music heard so deeply/That it is not heard at all, but you are the music/While the music lasts.” The music cascaded through me particularly loudly in this personal watershed year, as I am clinging to the precipice of decision: Does the educational show go on with or without me?
As I listened to the music of my middle school cosmos, what spoke loudest was what wasn’t said. These were the eddies and undercurrents swirling about myself and my colleagues, in various stages of sinking, swimming, besting the waves without fanfare (a true sigma, the kids might say), or bobbing like so much chum in the educational ocean.
And so, to salute the chaos that is the American public secondary educational system, SY (school year) 2023-2024, and because my therapist asked me to imagine writing a confessional letter to my principal or assistant, I have penned short fictional epistles to my friends and colleagues, written from various points of view. I’ve even included those of thankful parents and administrators (who might also be figments).
As I listened to the music of my middle school cosmos, what spoke loudest was what wasn’t said.
Names have been omitted or changed to protect the innocent.
Dear Teacher Weeping in the Staff Bathroom,
We heard you crying and feel compelled to speak up. We’ve been where you are, may still land there. But you are making a difference whether you realize it or not. We care about you. Don’t give up. Please.
Dear History Teacher,
Thank you for caring. When I crawled into the wastebasket and said “I belong here, like the trash,” you tried to help me. That you are a tiny cog in an Industrial Revolution-sized system and not a mental health professional is not your fault. I know you’ll be happy to hear I am healing day by day in my new high school.
Dear Colleague in Special Ed,
I heard how a student with an IEP (individualized education plan/program) spat in your face earlier today, which must be especially fraught for you as a black person in ways that most of us cannot begin to imagine. Unfortunately, I don’t know you very well beyond niceties, and, so, I’m afraid to tell you how much I admire your courage and compassion, lest I seem patronizing. Or worse. I am sorry you had to go through this type of mistreatment, but I also know you’re a consummate professional, from whom I have learned much. If no one has told you lately, thank you for all that you do.
Dear Summer School Substitute Teacher,
Don’t mind the shiv we made last year. That plastic toy we took from your windowsill and cleverly repurposed . . . you got it back the next day, didn’t you? It was unused. No cap. (That means we’re not lying.) We were just boys exploring our limits. (And stretching yours.) Besides, it’s a talking point, a teachable moment, a cherished memento. Right? See you again this summer?
Dear Stand-in Teacher in the Supportive Communication Classroom,
That I swung my fist at your face while you were just standing there, not even interacting with me in that moment, is not something I understand myself. My regular teacher will tell you stories about upsetting her husband, owing to the number of scratches, bruises, and bite marks she would come home with, throughout her two decades of teaching, so at least that’s not you, dear helper. I don’t mean to hurt anyone. Thank you for being there for me, patiently, unequivocally, and unjudgmentally.
Dear Custodial Staff,
We administrators wholeheartedly thank you. We are grateful for you a thousand times over, Miss Pearl, Miss Donna, and Mr. Stewart. Over the previous five years, our students have raised the bar for theft and vandalism, we know. Blame the pandemic, or TikTok, or social media, or absenteeism, or no rules at home, or spare the rod, or what-have-you. Through stolen soap and sanitizer dispensers, plus pulled-down exit signs, leaving holes as big as the zeroes in the teachers’ gradebooks, you’ve endured. And, like crazed animals trapped in a shelter, they’ve occasionally painted the bathroom walls in their own blood and poop, but you’ve faced it and erased it. Goodness knows how many slurs, male genitalia, purposefully smashed foodstuffs, and hateful messages you’ve scrubbed from our surfaces. You are angels here on Earth.
Dear Counselors,
On behalf of the many students you’ve helped, thank you for cajoling and lamenting us, for wisely advising and preventing us, for building us up and calming us down. You saw the real us and believed we could be something other than the labels attached to us. The metaphor of the iceberg You fought for us when no one else would. We can never thank you enough.
Dear Para-Educator,
Thank you for being patient with me, for seeing the person beyond the pain and anxiety. And I’m sorry if you bore it as your own when I told you my mom’s ex-boyfriend was stalking us and the police would do nothing, which, unbeknownst to me, caused you to worry and lose sleep. Thank you for just listening to me tell you about my older brother’s bullying or about my pet snakes, turtles, and lizards. You made me feel better about myself and life. Can I give you a side hug?
Dear Para-Educator,
Hi. Liam here. I appreciate you letting me confide in you that my mom is bipolar, we are running out of money, and I am scared. I don’t know what I’d have done to myself if I didn’t have a shoulder to cry on that day.
Dear PE Teachers,
We are thankful for your role in our children’s lives. You will probably never know how diffusing their energy also threw light (a good disinfectant) on their hurts. A quick pick-up game, a comment of “nice catch,” a pat on the back, a ten-second slice of your attention is more than some of them ever get from us, their parents at home (but we have our struggles too), the ones who are supposed to love and protect them. You also gave our kids boundaries, which they can desperately need. We wish we could declare our gratitude out loud.
When I crawled into the wastebasket and said “I belong here, like the trash,” you tried to help me. That you are a tiny cog in an Industrial Revolution-sized system and not a mental health professional is not your fault.
Dear Education Support Professional (who is an ESP, and perhaps possesses it),
You examine bumps, bruises, knocks, and gashes and make them live-withable; answer angry parental phone calls and make both silly and serious announcements whilst donning reindeer antlers and tutus; transport our kiddos safely despite all the screaming and hanging out of windows; clean up when that girl vomited on the floor during state testing or that sixth-grader stuffed an orange in the toilet that then kept flushing and flushing; offer extra teaching or tutoring, coaxing, coaching, and caring; lovingly feed kids out of your own wallet; prompt students to be safe in the hallways; intervene in more than one fight or pre-brawl in hallways, classrooms, lunchroom, and gym. You spend many hours, even after school, wringing your hands and wracking your brains to figure out a way to help him or her or them. You are the best, and maybe admin doesn’t know it, perchance the School Board is bored out of its mind with your mere existence, and possibly things will always be the same as they ever were, to paraphrase David Byrne. But, even as we rotate through this school year together, there’s no group —none with more ‘Rizz, either! — that I’d rather weather these days with.
Oh, and fellow educators: Remember, never, EVER muse that it’s been a “quiet” day so far.
All submitted with deepest affection, admiration, and gratitude,
Your colleague
