Dear 6th Grade Teacher,

You messed up.

Photo by Ivan Aleksic on Unsplash

TW: Childhood sexual abuse

Why do I write about this stuff? It’s admittedly unpleasant. Because right now, at this very moment as you read this, there are children being sexually assaulted and no one is doing a damn thing about it, even if they know it’s happening. I write to increase awareness among adults and, yes, to push adults to do the right thing if they know a child is being abused, even if it’s ‘uncomfortable’, or ‘inconvenient’, or any of those other bullshit excuses that we use to look the other way when we should be stepping in and doing something meaningful.

Read on.

My 6th grade teacher was the first person I told about the stepmonster’s middle-of-the-night visits to my room when everyone else was asleep. I wrote about it in my class journal, our required daily work. I thought that if anyone could help me, she could.

I adored Ms. K. She was pretty, had jet black hair, and wore fashionable clothes. She was a veteran teacher who was tough as nails and didn’t tolerate any bad behavior. She was one of the many teachers who would, in the late 1980s, leave a responsible student in charge of the classroom so she could nip down to the teacher’s lounge for a cigarette in the afternoon. She was modern and exciting to me, and taught in an interesting way. I remember feeling very grown-up when she taught us about photosynthesis and the scientific formulas for oxygen and carbon dioxide. I loved when she read aloud to us after lunch. I knew that I wasn’t her favorite student, she liked assertive kids, but that didn’t make me love her any less. Ms. K. was cool and challenged us. I was so happy to be in her class.

I really thought that she would be able to help me with my problem. We always turned our journals in on Fridays and got them back on Monday. I was nervous all weekend. Talking about family secrets, or anything uncomfortable, was forbidden and I knew that I was risking geting into big trouble.

When I got my journal back, I anxiously opened it to see that she had written, “Please see me during recess”, next to my entry. My stomach tied itself in knots and I felt like I was going to throw up, but there was also a sense of relief. At last, an adult was going to take charge and make the abuse stop! I know that I…