MEMOIRIST IDOL

A Teacher Saved My Soul: Facebook Let Me Thank Her for Her Keen Eyes 35 Years Later

All I wanted to do was cry, die, go home, and disappear.

June 28th, 2022

Wrapped in double blankets, propped up in my mom’s overstuffed armchair and ottoman ~ perfectly softened through time and loving usage, my visit was derailed. I wallowed in self-pity. Stricken with Covid and a self-righteous case of ‘poor-me,’ I convalesced instead of celebrating my mom’s 84th birthday.

The world had become all about me and my discomfort.

Only, it wasn’t.

My teacher died that same day.

My teacher.

I wouldn’t find out until weeks later. My shock and disbelief were immediate. So too, was the crystal-clear memory of how this teacher changed the trajectory of my self-worth in mere minutes.

I frantically checked Facebook for information. My mind was overtaken with an uncontrollable need to confirm that I had thanked her.

A balmy day, June of 1981

I walked underwater, dazed and off-kilter, into her classroom quite late.

She didn’t admonish me. That’s not who she was. An 11th-grade psychology teacher and our cheerleading coach, who projected firm warmth, watched me take my seat. Her play by the rules but enjoy life while you’re doing it mentality emanated from her.

A surreal feeling enveloped me, as I grappled to process the sting of a fresh and unthinkable incident, that swarmed in my head.

Nothing fit.

My world became inside out, upside down, sideways.

The smell of fear was mine and I could not wash it away.

I remember taking my seat by the window at my cold Formica and shiny metal desk. It was hard and unyielding with its attached chair. The classroom air was casual that day, nearing the last day of the school year. The chatter circled around me. It bounced off the outside of my ears but was denied entry to my overcrowded, noisy brain. The room filled with words I couldn’t hear and consisted of summer plans, discussed with heightened excitement.

I sat silent and stoic, acutely aware that my seat lacked warmth and security. I focused on my tailbone which struggled to find its spot. My brain wrestled to erase the foulness invading me and to categorize it. I was still young, painfully naïve, and didn’t possess the awareness to mentally file it away.

My skin crawled with ugliness.

What just happened?

Why me?

I felt dirty, was dirty, and the man’s stench clung to me.

All I wanted to do was cry, die, go home, and disappear.

Time was stolen, ripped out from under me. The bell rang and the class was over. For the first time since I entered the room, my teacher spoke to me.

“Stay for a minute, won’t you, Lisa? I’d like to talk to you.”

Oh, God.

That’s what he said.

My classmates filed out, still abuzz with visions of impending freedom, and I approached her with the pace of a dead man walking. She came around her desk and perched on the corner of it.

“You aren’t your bubbly self. Something is weighing you down and I want you to know I will help however I can. Just say the word, I’m here for you.”

I’m here for you. I’m here for you. I’m here for you.

For me.

I loved this woman. She gave my awkward, life-of-their-own limbs the opportunity to be a cheerleader. I never knew why she took a chance with my uncoordinated and gawky self but I admired her for making me feel chosen and special. What did she see? I trusted her.

Her kind outreach and soft delivery reduced me to tears. Bodily fluids raced to escape my eyes, nose, and maybe even my ears. My story spewed out, words haphazardly sandwiched between sobs of confusion.

As my emotions spilled the tawdry, embarrassment-filled filtered details, she calmly and slowly got up to close the classroom door.

Just like he did.

This time, though, she created a fishbowl of safety for me. Her actions were in direct contrast to being targeted in his fishbowl. And, she didn’t lock the door. Like he did.

I don’t remember how long we sat and talked. I do remember that she gave me the reassurances I needed to right a disgusting wrong. Her courage to file a report was the first step. She would back me as I took the next steps.

She believed in me once again and gave me value when I felt I had none.

I was just a girl.

He was authority. A long-standing, tenured teacher. He didn’t touch me physically but the words he hissed through his nasty teeth and little man syndrome body constituted verbal sexual assault. According to the School Board, I was not the first and unless I continued to follow procedures, I would not be the last.

That’s a big burden for a little girl.

Not understanding misogyny or sexism, nor being victimized, set me back while simultaneously forcing me into an ugly adult world. I had to repeat his words, foreign to me in their vile usage, to my parents and then to the School Board.

Strangers.

Embarrassment consumed me. Having to recount his words, to people who quietly assessed me with their eyes, sullied me each time.

All I wanted to do was cry, die, go home, and disappear.

As many gutless, yellow-bellied cowards will do when a mirror is held up, revealing their reflection of derelict, deviant, unacceptable behavior, he took the layman’s version of an Alford Plea. He quietly retired and was never seen in school again.

I saw him, though. From my bedroom window, I’d see him as he rode his bike in front of my house. Circling in the cul-de-sac, taunting me? Sometimes he was alone and sometimes his wife joined him. They lived in my neighborhood. He didn’t appear to have a care in the world.

I hated him.

The number of other young girls victimized by him slowly surfaced. None were ready to speak openly when they were in his clutches. I knew why. He personified ugly and the awfulness to relive his predatory attacks clung like a greasy residue.

I was just another little fish in his school pond for him to hunt.

I wondered if my peers would have had the comfort and strength offered to them as Ms. Park gave me, the girls would have felt supported enough to speak against the evil.

July 14, 2022

The beauty of Facebook and the internet files that never truly disappear gave me a sense of peace.

I had indeed thanked her in June of 2016. She had little memory of the incident that changed me. I believe her quiet soul of kindness reacted that day because that was who she was — no pretense, no forethought, just an angel cloaked in a teacher’s garb.

Thank you again, Debra.

You changed the world, one student at a time, as a teacher and an amazing woman. You left an indelible mark of love and kindness on my heart and soul.

Funny that I didn’t realize, until I read your obituary, that you only had 10 years on me. For a little woman, full of life, you were a giant to me.

For me.

I did cry, but didn’t die, and didn’t deserve to disappear. Thank you for your strength, love, and guidance.

Thank you for believing in me.

May you rest in peace.

Kristine Laco’s story of impacting our school kids is a heartfelt look at the role of a volunteering mom. It doesn’t matter who we are, or the age of the students, it takes a village and watchful eyes. Teamwork matters and so do our kids.

Join Medium by clicking on my link below to access her story, mine, and thousands of other writers. Read and/or write without limitations.

Find me and say hello!

Substack | Simily | Kindle Vella Nonfiction | Kindle Vella Fiction

Copyright © 2022 Lisa Gerard Braun. All rights reserved.