I'm happy that you're my teacher
I enjoy each lesson that you teach
To dream and to work and to reach
With your kindness you get my attention
Everyday you are planting a seed
Of curiosity and motivation
To know and to grow and to succeed
You're still my inspiration
So I'm sending this to you
With all my love and gratitude
For teaching as you do

they say there is more to learn than not.
that children are the future.
shaping young minds is
most admirable.
working through ways
for a few hours
makes up for lifetimes without.
the gift of knowledge
makes all the difference.

it is not our place to
tell them how to be.
we can only show them

Faintly, faintly, I’m beginning to hear you.
“Teacher” is what I call you, and what you are to me.
“Teach me.” No matter where I may be
my identity will apparently always be
“The Student” and I, like an actor given a role,
play it.

Quietly, a pair of eyes gaze sponge-like
at your catalogue of lessons,
trying to erase the body —
— which is too loud, too needy,
too everything —
and try not to let you be drowned out
by my dreams, my ideas, my expectations.
What are you saying now?

Something about… my own powerlessness?
Not the throngs of swans and the songs of the dawn?
Instead, prolonged wrongs and the dawning sense
that I don’t belong here?

No! No, that can’t be the lesson.
I am too natural, too sky-edged.
I’m too much the daughter of moss,
too akin to the hanging lichen that drapes ghost-like off the trees
and too free, heart up against the sea.
In short, too me.

But this means nothing to you.
I have to go quiet again, stop filling in the blanks
with words and more words. Recalling my role,
I listen for a lesson.

(And this is the first lesson I learn:
“Be Quiet And Listen”)

I’m sitting in class,
And I don’t know the solution ,
The teacher sees me struggling,
She’s aware of my confusion.

I stay after class,
She knows I’m really trying,
So when I don’t raise my hand,
I suppose she thinks I’m lying.

I really don’t know the answer,
I’m really just confused,
But it seems she wants to shame me,
So the class can be amused.

Four problems in a row,
But I guess she isn’t done,
After every “I don’t know”
She says, “you’ll do the next one”

I can hear the class laughing,
And a crimson shade comes to my face,
And I wonder why I feel so ashamed,
In what was my “safe space”