To the sixth form English Lit teacher who told me that my writing was too childish and would never get me a passing grade: guess what? I have a huge community of people who adore my writing and who wait with baited breath for each and every one of my posts. I’ve written full scripts and hundreds of short stories. I’ve out performed what you ever thought I was capable of. You were mean and cruel and made me think that I would never get the chance to do what I wanted with my life.
To the head of my sixth form who told me that I would likely never even be able to get into university because I just wasn’t academically gifted: I did it. And not only did I do it, but I passed with a 2:1 and continued on to do my masters and pass. I graduate in October. I know this would make you think you inspired me to be better, but you didn’t. You tore me down and it was me that built myself back up again, not you. So, hey. Guess what? You were wrong. You were despicable. You don’t deserve to feel good about my success.
To my history teacher, who worked hard with me for eight years to help me succeed. You were one of the only ones who could see past the shitty grades and the “lack of effort” to the person beyond it. You helped me find an interest in something that I found difficult. You inspired me to be better because I deserved to be better. You found ways to help me when others wrote me off as lazy. You saw that I just didn’t understand and you helped me make it easier. You were the best teacher I’d ever had and I am forever thankful for the ways you encouraged me. Thank you.