I was not an easy child to teach. I know this now in a way I couldn't at eight years old. I was quiet, frequently in my own world, and spent most of third grade drawing instead of paying attention. I drew on the backs of worksheets, in the margins of textbooks, on the inside covers of folders. Horses, mostly. And houses. And the same large orange sun over and over in every corner of every page.
Mrs. Calloway never scolded me for it. She would sometimes come and stand next to my desk and look at whatever I was drawing and just say, "That's a good horse." Then she would move on. I don't know why she did that instead of telling me to stop. I don't think I ever thought to wonder.
A Padded Envelope
Twenty-four years later, I was living in a city three states away, working as a graphic designer — which is the grown-up version of drawing instead of paying attention — when an envelope arrived. It was padded, slightly lumpy, addressed in careful handwriting I didn't recognize.
Inside was a folded letter and beneath it, carefully flattened and stacked: every drawing I had made in her class that year. She had kept them. Not scanned them. Kept the originals — the actual pieces of paper from 1999, some still with worksheet prompts printed on the back. Thirty-one drawings in total.
What the Letter Said
The letter was one page, written by hand. She said she was retiring after thirty-one years of teaching, and she had a box of things she'd kept from students over the decades — drawings and notes and small things that had mattered to her. She was returning them to the people they belonged to, while she still could.
She said she remembered me clearly. She said she used to think I was going to be an artist. She said she was glad she'd kept the horses. She said she hoped life had been kind to me.
She didn't ask for anything. She didn't need a response. She had just wanted me to have them back.
What I Know Now
I called my mother and cried on the phone for a long time. I framed the horse I like best — a big orange crayon one from November of third grade — and it hangs in my studio now. Next to the design awards. Next to the client work I'm proud of.
I wrote back to Mrs. Calloway. I told her I was a designer. I told her she was the first person who ever made me feel like the way my brain worked was useful rather than disruptive. I told her about the studio. I told her the horses were home.
She replied in three days. She said she was so glad. She signed it, simply, "Your third-grade teacher."
Some people leave marks on us without knowing. Some know exactly what they're doing and decide to do it anyway. Mrs. Calloway, I think, was both.
