An Open Letter to Miss Hill, My High School Geometry Teacher

Dear Miss Hill,

Perhaps we were both too young, you at twenty-two and me at fifteen.  Perhaps the social barriers of a student-teacher relationship kept us apart.  Perhaps I didn’t spend enough time in the classroom on account of getting kicked out on such a regular basis.  Whatever the reason, I just wanted to let you know that I’m super sorry we didn’t get to live out my fifteen-year-old fantasy of doing it on your desk during lunch period.

The fifteen-year-old version of my brain reminds me this is exactly what you looked like every day in class.

According to Facebook, it would appear as though you’re not going to be Miss Hill for long.  I’m sure your future husband is some older guy with a car, and I totally understand you wanting that.  Truth be told, I just don’t think it was in the cards for us.  I’m sure hearing that hurts you just as much as it does me, but at least we can both rest assured knowing that I saw your bra once or twice through the plackets of your blouse.  I’ll cherish those moments forever.

I wasn’t your only suitor.  Plenty of men were bidding for your attention, though their tactics were sometimes unconventional.  Take Brad, for example, who was a perpetual smartass, nay saying nearly everything you said, despite the fact that you were teaching irrefutable mathematical constants.  This caught your eye, I’m sure, but even Brad will tell you his efforts were flawed, noting that part of his smartass-ed-ness was probably the result of “just having caught a big ol’ glance of Mary’s purple thong.”  Clearly his love for you wasn’t as pure as mine.

Then, there was Carlos, who took a more high impact approach toward making you his.  On one occasion, he simply jammed a fork into the wall heater, rendering it disabled and nearly electrocuting himself in the process.  You looked at him as if to say, “Really?” (all of our hearts melted) and he gazed back at you with an air of “Come and get it, chica.”  You pulled him out into the hall and scolded him for nearly five, full, sultry minutes.  In-school suspension be damned, I know Carlos never regretted that fork maneuver.

As I’m sure you’ll remember (the teenager in me prays that you do) I took a more passive approach towards stealing your heart.  Stupid enough to be cute and cute enough to make me the focal point of all your throbbing desires, I would set up and play Milton Bradley’s Loopin’ Louie in your classroom, sometimes in the middle of a lecture.  At times I would claim that the children’s board game had some connection to the lecture and deserved to be present, while other times I would simply lose myself in thoughts of doing it in the teachers’ lounge while you yelled at me.  Either way, I was still thinking about doing it in the teachers’ lounge.

As it turns out, you were compelled to leave our high school within a year.  Most would say it was the result of constant verbal abuse, blatant disrespect, and complete lack of desire to learn, but I know better.  Wanting me was too much and you had to get away.  I understand.  By now, we’ve both moved on and are leading normal, healthy lives.  Well, I hope you are, at least.  I’m spent most of my time writing open letters to teachers, mothers, and other women who I never had a chance of scoring with when I was a teenager.

Hope You’re Well,

t.j.