Personal Letter

I was asked to write a letter to one of my professors as homework. Here's what I came up with:

August 25, 2005

Dear Jeff,

I am not your average 23-year-old (but only for another eight days), married with a dog, English and psychology degree holder with a flair for knitting. But then again, I don't think anyone is really average.

Lately, I have begun to identify myself as a "grown-up." I think this is such a big step for me because I've always wanted to be a grown-up and, even as a child, a big part of me has always felt already grown, despite the fact that my cognitive senses told me otherwise. What has made this realization apparent to me is the fact that I have a certain command over my life and my decisions that has never been there before. My life, until recently, has been greatly dictated by adults, bureaucracy, society, tradition and even roommates.

It strikes me that today I have eaten hummus, Muenster cheese and two different varieties of fresh vegetables. My six younger siblings most likely have no idea what those things are, much like me at their age. Even though I grew up knowing only about spam and scrambled eggs, meatloaf, spaghetti sauce from a jar, and Bisquick pancakes, I can take a different angle on something as taken for granted as my food consumption; now I drink soy milk and grill salmon outside with fresh-squeezed lemon juice.

Being married also contributes to this feeling of being a grown-up. It isn't the fact that I made an "adult" decision or that we're now home-owners or that we call our dog our child, but that marriage was a decision I made against lifelong conceptions about what I thought I needed in life. Once I realized that I truly wanted to be married and redefined what I wanted marriage to be like (instead of how it was demonstrated to me by various adults in my formative years), I was able to come to an understanding with myself that I could make marriage whatever I wanted it to be. Marriage doesn't have to be a house in the suburbs with carpeted stairs and appropriate wall art; marriage doesn't have to be reporting to my husband or being afraid of him or even worse, being afraid of not having him; marriage doesn't have to be restrictive or burdensome like muddy waters that flood my path to happiness. Rather, marriage could be something that starts off happily and continues in a partnership. Of course, I was only able to make this realization after deciding on the person I wanted to be my partner for the rest of my life. That fact is something else that indicates to me a level of grown-up-ness that has never before existed; when I was 16-years-old I was convinced my then-boyfriend and I were going to be married because, like my parents, that's just what you were supposed to do – although I never thought about it critically as I did before actually marrying.

I come to your class attentive to the world of knowledge. I want to learn how to be the best teacher I can be. As cliche as that sounds, it happens to be true. I already have some tools that will aid me in being a good teacher, but unlike many in academia, I know that teaching is a science that does not come naturally just because you know the material. Yes, I am strong-willed, smart, dedicated, passionate, organized, efficient, caring, friendly, empathetic, energetic and punctual. Yes, I know how to listen, how to read, how to write and all about literature. But I don't know the proverbial nuts and bolts of the profession. I don't know how other people do it, how they have done it. I want to know what works for other people and what doesn't and how stupid it would be for me to try it that way anyway. I want to be prepared to walk into a classroom ready to effect change.

My life plan at one time had been that I would go into counseling and then after having a full career in counseling I would go back to school and get my degree in teaching high school literature. Then I could retire being relaxed, doing what I enjoyed most. That was about six years ago. Because I wanted to counsel, I started my college career as a psychology student. However, I soon found it nearly impossibly for me to resist taking literature courses. So, to save some anguish and guilt, I simply added English as a major and graduated with both disciplines. After graduation I enrolled in a counseling program at The College of William & Mary where the workload was almost non-existent but the emotional intensity of the courses was more than I had bargained for. Toward midterms I had to write a theory paper for my course in counseling theories. One of the gals in my cohort, and one of my closest friends in Virginia, came to my apartment with her paper so we could host a mini writing workshop. After she read my paper she looked at me and abruptly asked, "Why are you in this class?" In response I looked at her blankly. Of course I was in the class because I wanted to be a counselor. Somehow, though, I couldn't explain that to her. She went on to tell me that I had written a stellar paper but that there was more passion in the paper for the paper itself and the argument of theory than for the actual theory. She told me she though of me as an amazing counselor and had thought so since the first week of class, but that after reading my paper she thought I would make a far better writer and teacher. I broke down in tears and asked her how she knew because already that semester I had been asking myself the same questions. Soon, it didn't make much sense to stay there and finish out the counseling program. At the end of the semester I returned to Boise and enrolled in this program instead.

So I come to the question you posed: How can I help you? You can help me by pushing me to do better, challenging me to experience more. You can believe in me as a student and as a teacher and provide me with opportunities to excel. You can provide me with a good example of what a prepared, motivated, engaged teacher looks like. You can hold me as accountable as you allow me to hold you. You can be prepared to keep up.

I look forward to the rest of the semester.

Sincerely,
A H