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Betrayal. It’s an ugly word, one that can only bring up unpleasant memories. It’s even worse when you thought you could trust the person who brought it to you, like I once did. Fifth grade should have been a happy time, a year I should have been able to savor. Instead for me it was a year I wish I could forget. By then I was already planning to be a teacher myself, and my own was currently my idol. That all changed as her alternating sharp words and indifference stung, though I was always too proud to show it. I don’t know if anyone ever noticed me recede inside myself, but there is no denying that it happened. I promised, no vowed, never to trust a teacher like that again, for I had learned how dangerous it was to give away your heart.

And then I started middle school and met Mrs. Meyers, my core (English and History) teacher. I liked her from the first day but wouldn’t dare open up. As weeks and months past, she quickly became my favorite teacher. Her class wasn’t my easiest by a long shot, but it was the one most likely to hold my attention. I loved her sarcastic, funny manner, and though she liked to tease us it was never meant to hurt. I think by the end of the year I would have gone to the moon if she had demanded it of me. Despite my unwillingness, I ended up trusting Mrs. Meyers and told her everything.

I even ended up voluntarily taking essays up to her to ask her opinion on a certain lead or paragraph, and she always answered questions without that patronizing air that made certain teachers hard to listen to. Anything she said to me was immediately stored in my memory for future use. I think this was why my writing skills shot up in her class, for I’ve looked at old work from fifth and sixth grade and the difference is astounding. I worked hard to impress her, and consequently core was the only class I was ever completely awake for.

However, I’ve always liked English class, no matter who taught it, but Mrs. Meyers has so far been the only teacher who sparks any interest in history. I loved the way her voice gave life to the stories, even if they were written in a textbook with its best worth as a paperweight. And though some of my friends complained about the workload she gave us in projects, I secretly liked them. Even research and essay writing grew more interesting in her class. I had more freedom with my ideas than ever before, and under guided encouragement, I found what I could manage if I truly tried.

Even as sixth grade ended, summer past, and a new school year began, I still went to Mrs. Meyers for help, asking for book recommendations and sometimes just a person to talk to. She remains the best teacher I have ever had, the best I think there will ever be. Though I certainly learned plenty that year, I also gained a sort of friend. I’ve also realized how simple the words ‘thank you’ are, but how much they are meant to mean. Therefore, if you, Mrs. Meyers, are out there reading this, ‘thank you’ is all I can say.




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