Dear Miss Smith,

You had me in your classroom for one year. All I remember you teaching me was that I was stupid.

You called me 'The Daydreamer" and would stop class to pointedly ask me sarcastically if I was daydreaming again.
I was a little girl. I believed in dragons and fairies and Aslan. I believed the whole earth and everything in it was alive. I would whisper to rocks and leaves as I passed by.
I was a little girl and I was a daydreamer. I could travel to other worlds from that classroom desk and to other places in this world. I made up the most fantastic stories. I loved to escape you, the fear of you.
I was a little girl and I was discovering love for the first time. My very first crush. I would sneak glances at him across the room, willing him to notice me.
I was a little girl and I was vulnerable. I knew you knew what you were talking about and I must be stupid. I have a very vivid, terrible memory when I suddenly realised just how stupid I must be. You were looming over me as you made me count my folders. I was so nervous with you standing there that I counted nine when there was ten.
"You can't even count to ten?" you asked, exasperated with me. I cowered and didn't respond.
My heart screamed in protest. "Yes I can!" I yelled inside. "I am good at counting. I can also write stories better than anyone else in this room if you gave me the chance, if you encouraged me. But I am being taught to mute my imagination."
Creativity is not as important as sitting still and paying attention, being a good girl and answering the question right. You taught me that.

Do you remember dumping me on to another adult for a 'special reading class'? I was special enough to leave the others and go with him to a small office. I remember those times of freedom from the fear you instilled in me. He was kind and funny and under his tutelage I learned. But then I would be sent back into your classroom and once again into silence.

I am shaking as I type this. I am not writing this letter for you. This is for me. I need to leave these things on the page. I need to tell myself that you were wrong. I am not stupid.

I had many amazing teachers growing up, but your voice is the loudest. It is you I hear late at night. You I hear as I write. You I hear when I'm struggling to speak and can't get the words out. What you instilled in me has affected every area of my life, my marriage, my faith. By teaching me it was wrong to use my imagination, you taught me that I was wrong, that I was made wrong.

You were wrong Miss Smith.

I am a woman and I am a creator.
I am a woman and will no longer be afraid to create.
I am a woman and I will no longer be afraid to speak.
I am a woman with presence.
I am a daughter of the King who made me.

And I will no longer let you into my head. I forgive you Miss Smith. For both of our sakes.

The Proud Daydreamer