LIFE LITERACY NARRATIVE
When approaching this assignment, I was not really sure where I was going to take it. I started out with just the first letter to Mr. Stewart, but soon realized that it was just the beginning of my literacy narrative through school. I started to see how each story lead into the next, and how I grew from each teacher.
During author's chair in class, while I reading the final letter to Mr. Bradley aloud, I had a weird feeling that I couldn't quite shake. When I got back to my apartment after class, the feeling was still with me. I had written a powerful letter to Mr. Bradley that expressed how important his class was to me; it didn't feel right to keep it to myself. So I looked up Mr. Bradley's email on my high school's website and sent him the letter I wrote to him. Within an hour, I received a grateful and emotional response from Mr. Bradley. I had made a difference in his week, in his life, and I felt that I had took a baby step in changing the world.
During author's chair in class, while I reading the final letter to Mr. Bradley aloud, I had a weird feeling that I couldn't quite shake. When I got back to my apartment after class, the feeling was still with me. I had written a powerful letter to Mr. Bradley that expressed how important his class was to me; it didn't feel right to keep it to myself. So I looked up Mr. Bradley's email on my high school's website and sent him the letter I wrote to him. Within an hour, I received a grateful and emotional response from Mr. Bradley. I had made a difference in his week, in his life, and I felt that I had took a baby step in changing the world.
From Hating Math to Finding Home: A Series of Letters to my Former Teachers
Dear Mr. Stewart,
Fifth grade was a turning point in my life, even though I didn’t know it at the time. Those long-ago days within the halls of Meadowbrook Elementary School were the days that the Vanessa I am today started taking shape. And I suppose I have you, the worst teacher of my k-12 education, to thank for that.
From Day One I knew I wasn’t going to like your class. All of my least favorite peers were in the class, and only one of my some-what-friends was in the class. I had heard that you were the strictest fifth grade teacher, and that was not up my alley. Your personality was condescending and lacking in empathy. My mom thought I was exaggerating how bad you were, until she went to the start-of-year parent-teacher conferences.
“Vanessa’s not good at math, is she?” you deadpanned to her, talking about me as if I wasn’t right there.
No introductions, just straight to the point. My mom still hates you. She gets riled up every time she thinks about the first words you ever spoke to her. It didn’t make me mad, but it broke a part of me. In fourth grade I had been in just a handful of students selected to be a part of “Hands on Equations,” an elite little math club where we learned basic algebra (even though they never called it that). We would miss reading once a week or so, and even though reading was my favorite time of the day, I didn't mind missing it. Our math club was fun; using scales and dices and blocks was way more engaging than the fraction worksheets we did during regular math time. But that was all in the past because you had labeled me bad at math the first weeks of fifth grade. All because I choked on the review quiz the first day of class.
I never cared for math after that. You said I was bad at it, so why did it matter? Why should I even try? Here’s the thing: I was good at math. Pretty damn good in fact. When I finally escaped the oppressive walls of your room and made it to sixth grade, I was nearly immediately put on the advanced track for math. And I stayed on that track all the way through AP Calculus my senior year of high school. But I never passed with flying colors. I passed on test scores alone because I never did my math homework. I would do my other homework, but never math. I gave up on trying the moment you said “Vanessa’s not good at math.” I never saw math as worth my time, even though I consistently scored higher in math than any other subject on standardized tests. If I had the motivation to pursue math, there is no telling how far that could have taken me. If I had a hunger for equations and pushed myself to find purpose in math, I might have had a successful career in numbers. Without studying, I scored high on my ACT and AP Calc tests (by the way, my mom would very much like to wave those results in your face). I knew I was good at math, but I hated it. Because you labeled me bad at math in the first weeks of fifth grade. All because I choked on the review quiz the first day of class.
Part of me feels bad for saying this, but it is true: the best part of fifth grade for me was when you were deployed. I knew you were on a base, not the front line, not really in immediate danger. For those few precious months, I was free. We had Mrs. Reynolds, the kindest substitute I have ever had. She was vibrant and supporting, exactly what disparaged fifth-grade me needed. I looked forward to going to school and spending all day in the same classroom. Learning became exciting not dreaded. I even found myself starting to like math again. But that time went too quickly, and when I arrived back from the high of Christmas break, you were there. The Man Who Stole Math was back at the front of the classroom, threatening to crush even more of my dreams.
Even though you took math from me, I guess you did at least give me one good thing: writing. I was a wild mind with big ideas, but a little voice. A lot of my classmates liked to draw, but I was no good at that. Besides, my ideas didn’t work as drawing; they were moving, breathing, living and drawing was too static. With a dark purple folder filled with wide-ruled loose leaf and a fifteen minute “writing time” once a week I saw my ideas become stories. The adventures Emily and I went on at recess were documented. Just in bits and pieces, scraps and starts, snapshots here and there. Not organized and anything but complete, but a start nonetheless. That folder is in the nightstand next to my bed at home, too precious to me to simply be packed away with all my other long forgotten school projects. The poorly drawn doodles on the cover and the smeared pencil letters and the misspelled words are my origin, my stories in writing for the first time.
Fifth grade was my start. Whether you knew it or not, Mr. Stewart, your class defined me. In your class I learned to hate math and to love writing, two pieces that are still key to my identity. I haven’t taken a math class since high school, but I’ve made writing part of my career. I am working towards three degrees, all of which I learned something about in your class. Two of them, English and Journalism, have writing at their core. The third is in education. It will allow me to empower a new generation. I will not talk down to them or crush their dreams. I will not take math from them.
Sincerely,
Vanessa Rickertsen
---
Dear Mrs. Kenton,
You were my first ‘real’ English teacher. As in that sixth grade was the first time we had teachers who only taught one subject, making you my first English teacher. Fifth grade cracked open the door of writing, but you swung it wide open, showing me the bright and vibrant and endless possibilities. Writing could be fun, it could be serious, it could be silly, it could be scary.
Our running project, the sixth-grade books, really opened my eyes to what I was capable of. Obviously, the writing prompts were very guided, nearly everyone ended up with the same stories and poems and letters, but that didn’t matter to me. I was having fun. When I didn’t think I was doing well, you encouraged me to keep working. If things were going really bad, you told me it was okay to start over, even though it was terrifying to tackle a blank document for the second time on the same assignment. I learned to see things not as giving up, but rather a fresh start. That sometimes taking a step back is the best way to move forward. A lesson that extended beyond just writing.
Somewhere between the postcard-covered walls, cheesy decorative printer paper, and Elmer’s glue, there was a spark in my heart. Since sixth grade, that spark has grown into a wildfire. All these years later I am still writing, or at least trying to. I think part of me has forgotten how to start over. I have forgotten the fresh start part. Instead, I step away. Afraid. Sixth grade me was never afraid of my own writing. I could learn a thing or two from her. Lessons she learned from you.
More than writing, I learned to love English as a whole. It became my favorite subject. I liked Science and Social Studies was cool, but English was where I felt I belonged. It's where I still feel I belong. That's why I am going to be an English Education major. I don't think I am brave enough to teach sixth-graders the way you did, but I hope that I can help spark something within my students.
Sincerely,
Vanessa Rickertsen
---
Dear Mr. Fierro,
I don't know if you ever realized, but I could not stand your class. I started sophomore year on a high, excelling in my favorite subject being placed in advanced English. I ended hating my favorite subject. I thought Advanced English 10 was going to be a grand adventure, but it turned out to be a stress-filled mud pit of a class. I slogged my way through it, but I lost a part of myself in the process.
Everything was so high-pressure. Strict deadline, harsh grading, obvious favorites, long assignments, high-stakes speeches. The speeches where probably the worst. I tried and tried and tried. No matter how much effort I put into crafting my speeches, no matter how many times I rehearsed, nothing was good enough. You didn't give me an A until my very last speech of the semester, and it was barely an A. Even then, I am convinced that you only gave me that A because I gave my speech on pole vaulting. I almost didn't, you know? I was so sick of you constantly pushing it. Every time you talked about the demonstrative speech, you would gravitate towards my desk and mention how someone years ago had given her speech on pole vaulting. You would look me in the eye while giving horrendously inaccurate mime of pole vaulting. It made my internally cringe. So badly I didn't want to do pole vaulting, just to spite you and your smug little grin. But I never said anything and I gave my speech begrudgingly. I was a track kid -- a pole vaulter no less -- so that got me on your good side, a position I was not willing to give up.
Everyone in the class knew you played favorite. Even worse, you graded on favorites. We all knew your beloved daughter was giving mediocre speeches but still getting better grades than most of the class. No teacher should let their personal feelings about a student determine grades. You taught me how detrimental that could be to students. I saw how your animosity affected my classmates and my friends. I know how discouraged it made me feel. I never want my students to feel that way. I never want my students to feel that they are not good enough. I wish you would have had that mindset. Maybe I wouldn't have hated English for an entire year of my life. Maybe I would have stayed on the advanced track. After all, I did trudge my way through endless grammar exercises and half skim-read enough literature (I never even bothered to finish the Great Gatsby) to get recommended for AE11.
But I couldn’t do it. Your AE10 class made me feel broken. A part of me was missing. My fifth-grade teacher took math from me by telling me I wasn't good at it, but I was too young and too early on to really miss it. But you took English from me in a worse way. You stole all of the joy, all of the pride that I had once found in English. Over the course of nine months you beat out the fire inside of me. So I didn't take Advanced English 11 because of you. But that turned out to be the best choice I have ever made, so maybe I should thank you. I don't know if I can do that though. There is too much bitterness in my heart towards you. But that bitterness is motivating me to become a better teacher than you were for me. I want to fuel the fires in students, not put them out.
Sincerely,
Vanessa Rickertsen
---
Dear Mr. Bradley,
I know I've told you before that you are one of the biggest reasons that I am an Education Major, but you are so much more. You are the teacher who saved my passion. I came into Junior year on a low; bitter feelings about English still lingered from the year before. Katelyn was my only friends not in Advanced English, so when we signed up for classes at the end of sophomore year, we took a gamble on the 'New Staff' option. That turned out to be the best bet I ever made.
I'll admit, the first week of class Katelyn and I thought we had made a huge mistake. You came down harsh on your policies right out of the gate, and it didn't help that you were a bulky bald guy with an earring who worked security for the rally as a summer job. But as the weeks went by and we started to realize that your policies were out of a place of caring. You were pushing us to be the best students we could be, not trying to scare us. Since starting my Education program at college, I have learned all about the self-fulfilling prophecy. Having high expectations for students makes them more likely to have high performance.
Not only did you have high expectations for all of your students, but you made English accessible. Never before had I been in a classroom where every student looked forward to being there, especially an English class. Everyone one from English-lovers like me to the star football players to the stoner seniors retaking junior English was involved in your classroom. You showed that you cared about each of your students. You asked us how our lives were going, in and outside of the classroom. That is part of what saved me.
I think you were the only teacher junior year who knew that my home life was crashing down around me. I didn't think I was going to tell any of my teachers, I was planning to keep on trucking on as an A-and-B student pretending that I was completely unaffected. But then one day I walked into class, ready for the usual routine of writing our daily journal entry based on the prompt on the board. I can't remember the exact words you used, but it was something along the lines of "How are you? How is life going?" I did not realize until that moment I needed something so simple. The words came out, seemingly without control: my dad quit his job and was moving three hours away to North Dakota right in the middle of my Junior year and now I could only see him on weekends. I was angry at him, but I couldn't say that; he made the best choice for the long-run. But I didn't care about the long-run. My life in ruin, I was lost.
You were understanding of this. When I would turn in my assignments a day or two late you didn't make a scene and didn't come down too harshly on grade penalties. You knew that I struggled to focus and felt overwhelmed with everything at home. Even when 'my printer broke' or 'I forgot my flash drive' for the third or fourth before an assignment was due, you simply told me to hand it in by the end of the day or before school the next day. With reduced pressure on deadlines, I found myself actually enjoying the assignments.
I not only felt confident and worthwhile in my writing, I learned what it meant to really analyze literature. That year we read The Crucible and How to Kill a Mockingbird. Only we didn't just read them. We had in-depth discussions that went beyond "why are the curtains blue?". We talked about authorial intent and the impact on readers and historical context. A profound but subtle change took place in how I viewed literature. I didn't know quite yet what the field of literature analysis was, but I discovered books are more than words on a page and it was more than just symbolism. You re-stoked the fire in my heart and it was burning brighter than ever before.
Junior year my home life was turned on its head, but junior year I also found a new home. The English classroom called to me and I knew its where I belonged. You astounded me as a student, showing me what it truly meant to be a great teacher. For a hot second the summer after graduation I thought I was going to be a Social Science major, but the moment I walked into orientation at NDSU it felt wrong. And while I've had a few hang-ups on the education part since starting college, I can't seem to walk away. You had not just opened the door of education in my mind, but had completely kicked it down so I could not ignore the call from the other side.
I would like to thank you, Mr. Bradley, for all you did for me. I would say that I aspire to be even half as great as you, but I know that you would find that insulting. You would want me to be just as great, even better. Because you always saw the potential in your students and refused to give up on them. So I hope to become a beacon of excellence in the field of education, just as you have always been for me. Thank you, Mr. Bradley.
Sincerely,
Vanessa Rickertsen
Fifth grade was a turning point in my life, even though I didn’t know it at the time. Those long-ago days within the halls of Meadowbrook Elementary School were the days that the Vanessa I am today started taking shape. And I suppose I have you, the worst teacher of my k-12 education, to thank for that.
From Day One I knew I wasn’t going to like your class. All of my least favorite peers were in the class, and only one of my some-what-friends was in the class. I had heard that you were the strictest fifth grade teacher, and that was not up my alley. Your personality was condescending and lacking in empathy. My mom thought I was exaggerating how bad you were, until she went to the start-of-year parent-teacher conferences.
“Vanessa’s not good at math, is she?” you deadpanned to her, talking about me as if I wasn’t right there.
No introductions, just straight to the point. My mom still hates you. She gets riled up every time she thinks about the first words you ever spoke to her. It didn’t make me mad, but it broke a part of me. In fourth grade I had been in just a handful of students selected to be a part of “Hands on Equations,” an elite little math club where we learned basic algebra (even though they never called it that). We would miss reading once a week or so, and even though reading was my favorite time of the day, I didn't mind missing it. Our math club was fun; using scales and dices and blocks was way more engaging than the fraction worksheets we did during regular math time. But that was all in the past because you had labeled me bad at math the first weeks of fifth grade. All because I choked on the review quiz the first day of class.
I never cared for math after that. You said I was bad at it, so why did it matter? Why should I even try? Here’s the thing: I was good at math. Pretty damn good in fact. When I finally escaped the oppressive walls of your room and made it to sixth grade, I was nearly immediately put on the advanced track for math. And I stayed on that track all the way through AP Calculus my senior year of high school. But I never passed with flying colors. I passed on test scores alone because I never did my math homework. I would do my other homework, but never math. I gave up on trying the moment you said “Vanessa’s not good at math.” I never saw math as worth my time, even though I consistently scored higher in math than any other subject on standardized tests. If I had the motivation to pursue math, there is no telling how far that could have taken me. If I had a hunger for equations and pushed myself to find purpose in math, I might have had a successful career in numbers. Without studying, I scored high on my ACT and AP Calc tests (by the way, my mom would very much like to wave those results in your face). I knew I was good at math, but I hated it. Because you labeled me bad at math in the first weeks of fifth grade. All because I choked on the review quiz the first day of class.
Part of me feels bad for saying this, but it is true: the best part of fifth grade for me was when you were deployed. I knew you were on a base, not the front line, not really in immediate danger. For those few precious months, I was free. We had Mrs. Reynolds, the kindest substitute I have ever had. She was vibrant and supporting, exactly what disparaged fifth-grade me needed. I looked forward to going to school and spending all day in the same classroom. Learning became exciting not dreaded. I even found myself starting to like math again. But that time went too quickly, and when I arrived back from the high of Christmas break, you were there. The Man Who Stole Math was back at the front of the classroom, threatening to crush even more of my dreams.
Even though you took math from me, I guess you did at least give me one good thing: writing. I was a wild mind with big ideas, but a little voice. A lot of my classmates liked to draw, but I was no good at that. Besides, my ideas didn’t work as drawing; they were moving, breathing, living and drawing was too static. With a dark purple folder filled with wide-ruled loose leaf and a fifteen minute “writing time” once a week I saw my ideas become stories. The adventures Emily and I went on at recess were documented. Just in bits and pieces, scraps and starts, snapshots here and there. Not organized and anything but complete, but a start nonetheless. That folder is in the nightstand next to my bed at home, too precious to me to simply be packed away with all my other long forgotten school projects. The poorly drawn doodles on the cover and the smeared pencil letters and the misspelled words are my origin, my stories in writing for the first time.
Fifth grade was my start. Whether you knew it or not, Mr. Stewart, your class defined me. In your class I learned to hate math and to love writing, two pieces that are still key to my identity. I haven’t taken a math class since high school, but I’ve made writing part of my career. I am working towards three degrees, all of which I learned something about in your class. Two of them, English and Journalism, have writing at their core. The third is in education. It will allow me to empower a new generation. I will not talk down to them or crush their dreams. I will not take math from them.
Sincerely,
Vanessa Rickertsen
---
Dear Mrs. Kenton,
You were my first ‘real’ English teacher. As in that sixth grade was the first time we had teachers who only taught one subject, making you my first English teacher. Fifth grade cracked open the door of writing, but you swung it wide open, showing me the bright and vibrant and endless possibilities. Writing could be fun, it could be serious, it could be silly, it could be scary.
Our running project, the sixth-grade books, really opened my eyes to what I was capable of. Obviously, the writing prompts were very guided, nearly everyone ended up with the same stories and poems and letters, but that didn’t matter to me. I was having fun. When I didn’t think I was doing well, you encouraged me to keep working. If things were going really bad, you told me it was okay to start over, even though it was terrifying to tackle a blank document for the second time on the same assignment. I learned to see things not as giving up, but rather a fresh start. That sometimes taking a step back is the best way to move forward. A lesson that extended beyond just writing.
Somewhere between the postcard-covered walls, cheesy decorative printer paper, and Elmer’s glue, there was a spark in my heart. Since sixth grade, that spark has grown into a wildfire. All these years later I am still writing, or at least trying to. I think part of me has forgotten how to start over. I have forgotten the fresh start part. Instead, I step away. Afraid. Sixth grade me was never afraid of my own writing. I could learn a thing or two from her. Lessons she learned from you.
More than writing, I learned to love English as a whole. It became my favorite subject. I liked Science and Social Studies was cool, but English was where I felt I belonged. It's where I still feel I belong. That's why I am going to be an English Education major. I don't think I am brave enough to teach sixth-graders the way you did, but I hope that I can help spark something within my students.
Sincerely,
Vanessa Rickertsen
---
Dear Mr. Fierro,
I don't know if you ever realized, but I could not stand your class. I started sophomore year on a high, excelling in my favorite subject being placed in advanced English. I ended hating my favorite subject. I thought Advanced English 10 was going to be a grand adventure, but it turned out to be a stress-filled mud pit of a class. I slogged my way through it, but I lost a part of myself in the process.
Everything was so high-pressure. Strict deadline, harsh grading, obvious favorites, long assignments, high-stakes speeches. The speeches where probably the worst. I tried and tried and tried. No matter how much effort I put into crafting my speeches, no matter how many times I rehearsed, nothing was good enough. You didn't give me an A until my very last speech of the semester, and it was barely an A. Even then, I am convinced that you only gave me that A because I gave my speech on pole vaulting. I almost didn't, you know? I was so sick of you constantly pushing it. Every time you talked about the demonstrative speech, you would gravitate towards my desk and mention how someone years ago had given her speech on pole vaulting. You would look me in the eye while giving horrendously inaccurate mime of pole vaulting. It made my internally cringe. So badly I didn't want to do pole vaulting, just to spite you and your smug little grin. But I never said anything and I gave my speech begrudgingly. I was a track kid -- a pole vaulter no less -- so that got me on your good side, a position I was not willing to give up.
Everyone in the class knew you played favorite. Even worse, you graded on favorites. We all knew your beloved daughter was giving mediocre speeches but still getting better grades than most of the class. No teacher should let their personal feelings about a student determine grades. You taught me how detrimental that could be to students. I saw how your animosity affected my classmates and my friends. I know how discouraged it made me feel. I never want my students to feel that way. I never want my students to feel that they are not good enough. I wish you would have had that mindset. Maybe I wouldn't have hated English for an entire year of my life. Maybe I would have stayed on the advanced track. After all, I did trudge my way through endless grammar exercises and half skim-read enough literature (I never even bothered to finish the Great Gatsby) to get recommended for AE11.
But I couldn’t do it. Your AE10 class made me feel broken. A part of me was missing. My fifth-grade teacher took math from me by telling me I wasn't good at it, but I was too young and too early on to really miss it. But you took English from me in a worse way. You stole all of the joy, all of the pride that I had once found in English. Over the course of nine months you beat out the fire inside of me. So I didn't take Advanced English 11 because of you. But that turned out to be the best choice I have ever made, so maybe I should thank you. I don't know if I can do that though. There is too much bitterness in my heart towards you. But that bitterness is motivating me to become a better teacher than you were for me. I want to fuel the fires in students, not put them out.
Sincerely,
Vanessa Rickertsen
---
Dear Mr. Bradley,
I know I've told you before that you are one of the biggest reasons that I am an Education Major, but you are so much more. You are the teacher who saved my passion. I came into Junior year on a low; bitter feelings about English still lingered from the year before. Katelyn was my only friends not in Advanced English, so when we signed up for classes at the end of sophomore year, we took a gamble on the 'New Staff' option. That turned out to be the best bet I ever made.
I'll admit, the first week of class Katelyn and I thought we had made a huge mistake. You came down harsh on your policies right out of the gate, and it didn't help that you were a bulky bald guy with an earring who worked security for the rally as a summer job. But as the weeks went by and we started to realize that your policies were out of a place of caring. You were pushing us to be the best students we could be, not trying to scare us. Since starting my Education program at college, I have learned all about the self-fulfilling prophecy. Having high expectations for students makes them more likely to have high performance.
Not only did you have high expectations for all of your students, but you made English accessible. Never before had I been in a classroom where every student looked forward to being there, especially an English class. Everyone one from English-lovers like me to the star football players to the stoner seniors retaking junior English was involved in your classroom. You showed that you cared about each of your students. You asked us how our lives were going, in and outside of the classroom. That is part of what saved me.
I think you were the only teacher junior year who knew that my home life was crashing down around me. I didn't think I was going to tell any of my teachers, I was planning to keep on trucking on as an A-and-B student pretending that I was completely unaffected. But then one day I walked into class, ready for the usual routine of writing our daily journal entry based on the prompt on the board. I can't remember the exact words you used, but it was something along the lines of "How are you? How is life going?" I did not realize until that moment I needed something so simple. The words came out, seemingly without control: my dad quit his job and was moving three hours away to North Dakota right in the middle of my Junior year and now I could only see him on weekends. I was angry at him, but I couldn't say that; he made the best choice for the long-run. But I didn't care about the long-run. My life in ruin, I was lost.
You were understanding of this. When I would turn in my assignments a day or two late you didn't make a scene and didn't come down too harshly on grade penalties. You knew that I struggled to focus and felt overwhelmed with everything at home. Even when 'my printer broke' or 'I forgot my flash drive' for the third or fourth before an assignment was due, you simply told me to hand it in by the end of the day or before school the next day. With reduced pressure on deadlines, I found myself actually enjoying the assignments.
I not only felt confident and worthwhile in my writing, I learned what it meant to really analyze literature. That year we read The Crucible and How to Kill a Mockingbird. Only we didn't just read them. We had in-depth discussions that went beyond "why are the curtains blue?". We talked about authorial intent and the impact on readers and historical context. A profound but subtle change took place in how I viewed literature. I didn't know quite yet what the field of literature analysis was, but I discovered books are more than words on a page and it was more than just symbolism. You re-stoked the fire in my heart and it was burning brighter than ever before.
Junior year my home life was turned on its head, but junior year I also found a new home. The English classroom called to me and I knew its where I belonged. You astounded me as a student, showing me what it truly meant to be a great teacher. For a hot second the summer after graduation I thought I was going to be a Social Science major, but the moment I walked into orientation at NDSU it felt wrong. And while I've had a few hang-ups on the education part since starting college, I can't seem to walk away. You had not just opened the door of education in my mind, but had completely kicked it down so I could not ignore the call from the other side.
I would like to thank you, Mr. Bradley, for all you did for me. I would say that I aspire to be even half as great as you, but I know that you would find that insulting. You would want me to be just as great, even better. Because you always saw the potential in your students and refused to give up on them. So I hope to become a beacon of excellence in the field of education, just as you have always been for me. Thank you, Mr. Bradley.
Sincerely,
Vanessa Rickertsen