Please know that I write this with no pomp or circumstance. I am only trying to show how teachers shape who we become, and as a ‘thank you’ to the good ones.

Once I had a Monster for a teacher. Everyone has had one or two bad ones that, years later, they remember hating. And being a product of the public school system, I had had my fair share of lousy teachers. I once had a biology teacher who spent twenty minutes each class regurgitating notes from ten years ago before having us play Risk at the back of the class. He was like Cameron Diaz in Bad Teacher—there to pick up his paycheck and that was it.

But I digress…

The Monster I had was worse. She was an antagonist of learning. a destroyer of passion. a shatter of dreams. To call her evil would be kind.

But you want to know what the funny thing is?

I can’t remember her name.

I can see her face and her inappropriate outfits and idiotic grin. But now, looking back I blank on her name. I think I blocked it out. a side-effect of trauma.

I remember the name of the English teacher I had before her, who showed me the world of Shakespeare, and the power of good writing. a teacher I am now friends with on Facebook. I even remember Mr. Let’s-Play-Risk’s name, but I can’t remember the Monster’s.

At first I was excited for the class. I walked in ready to learn. Our first day we wrote a practice essay. It was worth nine points and the class average was three. I got a six. She even made an announcement congratulating me on a well-written paper. Behind my bright red cheeks I felt pride.

As the semester went on everyone started to improve.

Everyone but me.

My papers were returned each time with sixes on the top. My peers started to get sevens and eights and I kept getting a six. I went into talk with her about it and we went through it together. Line by line. Trying to understand so I could improve.

The class came to an end and I had never received anything better than a six.

In the midst of studying for the exam, I was distracted. I felt like a failure.

So I went to talk to her, to try to understand why I wasn’t getting any better. I asked her why I hadn’t been improving. I was putting in the effort, and nothing was happening. I wanted to understand.

You want to know what she told me?

She told me that I “would never be anything but a ‘B student.’”

She told me I shouldn’t even try.

Then I swear she smiled.

It has been years and it stills hurt sometimes. She broke my little 17-year-old-heart when she said I shouldn’t even try and it always hurts when someone breaks your heart. Since I was six I had loved school. I loved writing, and reading and art (though I did hate math and science). I loved turning in assignments and doing well in class.

But the thing I loved more than anything else was learning.

In the years since having the Monster I had gotten Bs, even a couple of not-so-impressive Cs. Each time it was disappointing because it felt like she was right. It felt like I would never be anything more than my grade. But I kept trying. I graduated high school with honors. I was the first in my family to go college. And it was in college where I have my realization.

I am more than a grade on a transcript.

I am sarcastic and witty. I make people laugh. I am loyal and people can depend on me. I work hard. I am eager to learn. I have a desire to travel the world. I am determined to succeed.

Since the Monster, I have had some awe-inspiring, intellectuals with a contagious passion for knowledge as teachers. I have had French professors who have taken me to foreign countries and introduced me to new languages and cultures. I have had a professor who invited students over for a dinner party where we discussed politics and academia over wine all night. I have been to art shows with some of the greatest artists coming out of Seattle. I have spent classes discussing feminism and Islamophobia. I can talk about Plato and Descartes and Existentialism with enthusiasm.

But it is never enough. The more I learn, the more I realize I don’t know. So I keep going to classes. I keep reading books by great writers. I keep learning. I want to soak it all in.

I keep trying.

All of this came up yesterday when I was walking out of a meeting with my philosophy professor. I was talking to him about the readings we had to do for the final term paper and I was holding my own while talking about Tolstoy and Schopenhauer. At the end of the meeting he told me that each year they ask for a list of a few students who should be recommend for advanced philosophy courses, and he said he would like to recommend me. I was so shocked I almost cried.

Three months ago I couldn’t stand philosophy. I thought philosophers were pretentious and entitled (and still think some are). I didn’t understand any of it. But this quarter I have loves the discussions we have in class and the conversations I can now have with my roommate. I have developed a fondness for it. I am passionate about the learning.

This passion doesn’t just come from the trying. It comes from the teaching.

Good teachers are supposed to cultivate learning and distribute knowledge. Great ones form connections.

It takes great teachers to inspire someone.

This June, after four years of hard work (and a little bit of fun) I will graduate. I will receive the most expensive paperweight.

Some people say that it isn’t worth it to go to college anymore. They say you will just end up in debt without job security that a degree once held. And these people might be right. I will graduate with debt. But I will also graduate with this sense that I am greater than a “B,” and all the stuff I have learned.

I will graduate with this sense that the trying will pay off.

And As some of you may be aware, I am applying to an English teaching program in France for after graduation. Mostly because I want to see if I have what it takes to be a good teacher.

I know I couldn’t be any worse than the Monster.

This is dedicated to the good ones. You have taught me more than you will ever know.