A Crumpled Letter

By: Nathaphon Yu King Hing

Dear Miss Felicity,

Twenty two years and seven months and twelve days.

I hope that time has treated you well. As people used to tell me, “Time heals all wounds.” Even mine. Do you remember me? Because I remember you.

I remember, back when nine letter words were complex machinery and division of numbers a foreign tool, I remember what you did. Back when you were a teacher. Back when I thought you were a teacher. See, Miss Felicity, I used to have this naïve idea that teachers not only taught their students but guided them too. That they held hands to cross the street and they teach children how to add and subtract and multiply and divide. Especially divide, because everyone always has trouble with that.

But you taught me something else.

You taught me that it wasn’t alright to have spelling mistakes, because any student should know how to spell “enormous” and “cheesecake” and “nightmare”. You taught me that it wasn’t alright if I got my paper back with red marks all over it. You taught me that an essay must have five paragraphs, introduction and conclusion and three body paragraphs. You taught me that it wasn’t right to write the letter “y” with a curly tail. You taught me that adults lie. That adults are hypocrites. And even though I didn’t quite know how to phrase it then, I know now. You, Miss Felicity, you’re a child’s nightmare.

I remember when I couldn’t quite divide nine by three and you made me write the equation two hundred times over. I remember when you spilt your coffee on me. You burnt me. And when my mother asked about it, you, Miss Felicity, you lied. You said that I, I, had spilled it over myself. You burnt me, shattered my world. Tore my faith. And when other children around the world dreamt of monsters under their bed, I learnt that true monsters are so entirely human. It was you who taught me that.

You see, a child doesn’t need red marks and numerical consistency. A child doesn’t need to have perfect spelling. I don’t care, Miss Felicity, if you did what you thought was right, because what you did was wrong. Inexcusable. You, you drove daggers into my mind, my heart. You divided me into pieces, like I was a whole number.

Twenty two years and seven months and twelve days, and I haven’t forgotten. More than anything, I’d like you to understand what you’ve done. You taught me that letters should always begin with “Dear-“ and end with “Sincerely” or something or other. Just to drive the point home, though, I’ll end it a little differently. (You’ll also notice that I used more than five paragraphs.)

You see, Miss Felicity, all a child needs is a smile and some freedom. You took that away. It’s a shame that your name does you no justice.

Autumnally yours,
A Crumpled Person