Dear Mrs. Gaddis,

I can only imagine how hard it was to do your job, secretary at the poorest school in town. Dealing every day with the Truths of Poverty and Neglect could not have rested softly on your heart. I am glad that my writing of this letter, my release from it's perspective, has come after your release from this Life. My story may mean nothing to you; the lessons therein mean everything to me.
The school year 1975-1976, I was in Mrs. Surts' third grade classroom. You once came into our room with your very own Fry Daddy and donut dough & fixin's. We celebrated our class' Quietest in the Hallway award; we were so glad to walk on Pooh feet like our beloved teacher's dog. It was the year Terry Dunkelberger choked, on the candy we got for reading to the Jr 1st graders, and puked all over her desk. It was the year you didn't see Bobby nor Donny nor Albert for behavior issues.
We had just finished reading the entire Little House on the Prairie series. Mrs. Surts used her magic to make this story come to life for us, everyday after lunchtime recess. We planned a pageant, with square dancing complete with costumes carefully constructed from paper.
This pageant was my chance. My first and only chance to do something right. I had the dress and it was clean and ready to go. It was a long prairie style dress, cream colored, lightweight, covered in colored bonnets. Just like the ones we were making to wear. It was in the drawer, carefully examined and refolded every day, as I counted the days until Wednesday morning and my chance to show everyone (well, not my parents, they probably wouldn't come) that I really was doing the best I could with what I got, that sometimes life works out for the stinky kid.
Monday morning, only two more days, I bounce into school... well as much as one can when being the dirty stinky girl wearing a too-small pant suit. A too-small pant suit that was mustard and red houndstooth polyester. When she came to me. I think her name was Jill, or maybe her sister was Jill; anyway, the beautiful girl with perfect 70s straight hair and barrettes and a step-dad who was vegetarian came up to me in all of her perfect sweetness and said she was terribly sorry, they'd called my house but no one had answered and, well, the pageant is today, not Wednesday. In my pantsuit! which I wore because I was running out of clothes and had to save my dress for Wednesday!!!! I ran to the school office in tears and I begged you to let me call my dad. I got him on the phone and he agreed, reluctantly, to bring my dress to the office, when he got around to it. I was so desperate, I needed this shot. This dress represented everything to me. You said, I've got a really busy day, I don't know if I'll be able to call your classroom to let you know it's here, if it does arrive.
You and I had known each other a long time by now, I'd been attending Hawthorne Elementary since I was 4 and in Headstart. My homelife was not a mystery to you. I was the dirty stinky kid who was too smart for her own good. I already knew this. You did too. I thought you could see what this meant to me. I'd hoped you'd be on my side.
We had the pageant that day. I was the recipient of pity. A lot of it. No real appreciation for Diana. Pity for the Pantsuit Kid and gratitude we're not her. Mrs. Surts loved me. She was so gentle with me, she blocked what she could, but we all already knew. Nothing would change. I couldn't fix it.
I decided to leave by the Office Door that day, thinking maybe dad didn't bring it. He brought it. It was there, on the corner of your desk. So beautiful.
It didn't matter if I wore it on Tuesday. I had to live through that Monday first, without it. In my too-small, houndstooth pantsuit. And a paper bonnet.
People took pictures.

By 4th grade and Mrs. Lanz, I was done.
I didn't want to bother you any more.
Not with testing, not with tutors, not with a gifted program, not with paperwork, certainly not with me.

Those 8 years with you in our falling-down school building taught me a lot about how I don't want my world to be. For that I will be forever grateful. I have always known that my elementary experience would not be repeated with my children.
I keep the Mrs. Gaddises in our lives to a minimum.
I gather as many Mrs. Surtses as I can find.
My kids have an amazing life for your influence in mine.
Thank you.
May your next incarnation be as peaceful and gentle as you deserve.
Love,
Diana Jenner né Lambert