Dear Mrs. Cooke,

After eight years of parochial school my parents cast me into the less civilized environs of public middle school where two bullies trapped me in a corner of the hall and demanded my lunch money in return for “protection” from other bullies. If I refused, they warned, I would take a beating from them personally. I deftly escaped with my money and my skin, but I’d lost innocence. Humor had always been my antidote for pain, so I stepped it up. I entered your English classroom, and all the other classrooms, with an enlarged commitment to clowning.

You would discipline appropriately when I disrupted class, then take me aside and encourage me to consider a career in stand-up comedy. Your candor and nurture set you apart, but you were, nonetheless, a teacher, and I had almost no interest in academics. Show business had caught my eye at a very early age and I’d locked down on a one track to fame and adulation.

As the year progressed you saw in me a talent for writing. Your encouraging shifted from stand-up comedy to a future in writing. I felt complimented, but little else. Making barely passable grades suited me fine and your approval did not matter much. We had our last one-on-one after you graded final exams and, on that day, you caught my attention.

As the deadline for our final papers loomed I’d not written a word. Feeling desperate I plotted excuses in lieu of hammering out an outline. Then suddenly, I got a break. Crinkled up in a desk in your classroom I found an essay review of a controversial new movie called “Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner” written by a prior student, turned in and graded by you. Editing would be easier than creating, so I chose to plagiarize.

It would be tricky. I would need to rewrite thoroughly, telling the story in my own voice. Altering the plot would throw you off, too, and I would change the ending entirely. Finally, I would need a failsafe if you called me on the carpet. So, I decided, I would disavow any knowledge of the movie, declare my work as original fiction and stand on the lie to infinity. You did call me out, of course, and I got over on you. Or did I?

I held out, unflappable, as you grilled intensely. In the end you accepted the work as mine and even gave me an A. You knew the paper was a lie, but you chose a higher road. For the price of one exam and one final grade, you elevated a student.

From that day forward my disdain for academics continued intact. I loafed, deceived and clowned my way to a high school diploma, always with my eye on stardom. But I had a newfound confidence in my ability to write; you stuck it on me as I streaked by. Thank you.

I have no idea where you are or that you’ll see this letter. I can only hope to pay forward the life-gift you’ve given me.

With love and respect,
Steve Goetzman