Dear Mrs. White
You're long dead, I'm sure, because you were already ancient when I was only nine and you were my fourth grade teacher. I remember your old lady smell and the black or navy shirtwaist dresses, the thick and wrinkly support hose, the sensible black shoes with laces, your thin white hair pulled back in a bun at the nape of your neck, and the faint smell of cheap talcum powder. Remembering those things convinces me that you were truly old and it wasn't just me thinking that all grown-ups were old. But what I wanted to say, Mrs. White, is that you had a big impact on my life. If I had to describe that impact, I'd say that you were an icy wind that bore down on my self-esteem, leaving it nearly frozen to death. You committed more than your share of little atrocities that year, including making us memorize all the patriotic songs you knew and then write them verse by verse, spelling and punctuation counted. But the most heinous act directed solely toward me occurred...