The Sixteenth
Attempting to Thank My Daughter’s Fourth-Grade Teacher
My daughter had a truly wonderful year at school. Probably the best she’s ever had. Is that declaration a bit of a cheat, considering about half of her elementary school career was eclipsed by the pandemic (of 2020)? Absolutely. But still. She had an amazing teacher. And so I wanted to thank her (the teacher) with a Target gift card and a thank-you card. Easy, right? Buy the stuff, toss off a little note, then put it all together to have something nice to give her. Shouldn’t be a problem. Shouldn’t. But, like that classic get-rich scheme meme, the middle step was much fuzzier on closer inspection.
Because, you see, I’m not just a writer, but “A Writer.” Or at least I tell myself I am, and the accompanying (foolish) narrative includes the idea that no note is ever “tossed off.” I must belabor the process as I bare my soul to the socially appropriate degree. So, I had drafts. That’s right I had drafts. I drafted the thank-you note. And to get started I ran some practice ones to other teachers who haunt my memory. I warmed up to the task and tried different vibes on for size:
Dear Miss Honey, I’ll always and forever be indebted to you for helping my daughter unlock my magical powers. Your love and support were the bedrock I used to build upon my understanding of my newfound abilities. —Too stuffy while also too effusive
Mr. White— I was surprised to find you were still teaching class, considering all the extra-curricular activities you get up to! Thanks for teaching the practical side of learning science. Good luck with the car wash! (and the cancer). —Too personal
Dear Dr. Jones, Considering how much of the year you spend god knows where, I’ll be surprised you even get this. The girl who sits in the front row seems to love you though. You can see it in her eyes. Thanks for being the teacher we can totally dig— you’re a real… trip. —Wildly inappropriate
Thank you, Mr. Holland, for showing us all your very large opus— Somehow even more inappropriate
Mr. Keating, Oh thank-you my thank-you! —Too surreal
Dear Professor Snape, you might be half-blood, but you’re all heart! —Flippant!
Dear Michelle Pfeifer’s Character from That One Movie. Thank you for being the white person at the white time. —Unnecessarily Racial!
Ms. Frizzle. What can I say? You’re the woman I wish I had in my life when I was younger, the woman I want my daughter to be when I grow up. Thanks for everything you taught, everything you were. Everything you are. This world needs more teachers like you , who can instill —Far too intimate!
Anyway, eventually I turned my attention to the real deal and, after hours of work, furious scratching on scraps of paper, and with the final pick-up of the school year fast approaching, I finally hammered out a draft I thought was the right balance of light, thoughtful, fun, and meaningful. A note to make her smile but didn’t try to imply a level of friendship too deep. Something that summed up neatly all the growth and learning she fostered in my daughter without sounding like my lips were kissing shoe leather. One note to thank them all.
I got out the only card we had and began transcribing my carefully chosen words. And then, somehow, I got lost in thought. Or I’d gotten so entrenched into draft mode I’d forgotten we were doing something else. Whatever the case, I suddenly was going off script. Just freewheeling it! As I began to run out of space my script became smaller and smaller. I frantically searched for a way back to the beautiful ending I’d planned as the path toward it unraveled by the very hand who crafted it. By the end, it looked less like a thank-you note and more like a deathbed confession to a murder.
But the only thing I killed was my pride. And of course, by the end, I wasn’t happy with what I wrote. I think even if I had faithfully copied my final draft, I’d find fault in it— probably feel like it was soulless and too effortful. But whatever. I got it done and (awkwardly) handed it to her, and that’s what matters. Sometimes you just have to put your stuff out there and move on to the next thing, whether you’re ready to or not.
