My Value

"You will never amount to anything."

This is a direct quote from Mr. Wetzel, who was my art teacher my Senior year of high school. He decided that his anger and disgust for me was worth saying these words to a 17 year old girl.

I had just moved that summer, away from friends and familiarity. We had been in the Florida panhandle for eight years, a record for a military family, and I still have yet to live anywhere longer. I chose to move to south Florida with my family, despite being given the option to stay with close friends and finish out my Senior year.

I chose not to separate from my family because if you learn nothing else as a child in a military family- it is that family is forever. My Dad had been on TDY (like a long business trip) for nearly two years of my high school experience, and he had been at his new job for a year in Connecticut. We saw him frequently, but I did not want to miss out on having my entire family consistently under one roof before I left for college. I moved, and everyone was fairly miserable that first year, but we were together.

I made friends with twin girls in my class, so at least I had someone to sit at lunch with. I had to drive on the highway for the first time in order to commute to my school, the only school that had the IB program I had been enrolled in at my previous school. (An advanced placement type program.)

South Florida was nothing like the panhandle of Florida. It was a culture shock on many levels.

At my school, there were a lot of children of migrant workers, and they all hung out on one wall. People called this the "Guatemalan Wall" and no one spoke to them. They all spoke Spanish to each other. I didn't know they were children of migrant workers, not until much later.

Christianity was an oddity here, as opposed to my previous home where it was "cool" to be Christian. The Christian club was astonished when they gained a new member. We got every Jewish holiday off for school, my first exposure to the Jewish religious calendar, as we had only one boy in my last high school who served as the "token Jew."

My adjustments were significant to live in this new place, but I managed to find my way and make it work. I found a church. I spent more time with my family. I was going to be OK.

Then Mr. Wetzel started showing signs of not liking me. He didn't like my particular art choices (I had to do an art project for my IB final). He gave me an "F" in class despite the fact that I turned in all assignments, completed and on time. He gave me an F in the class, but when he was forced to provide an impartial score as part of my IB final, he gave me a more than passing grade. He just didn't like me.

Mr. Wetzel told me I would never amount to anything. I would never accomplish anything in life. He said that. To me. To this day I cannot figure out why he had such a fierce dislike for me. It was the first time I realized what someone in power could do if they didn't like me. I didn't know whether to speak up or run away.

I did both.

The day he told me I would never amount to anything, I went home in tears and yelled in my anger. I told my parents about it, about how he failed me in the class, and how he had told me I had no future. It was the first time I ever cursed in front of my parents without any regret- and they didn't blame me.

I screamed: "He is an ASSHOLE!"

My parents set up a conference where they convinced him to give me a D so I could graduate. His D kept me from being in the top 1% of my graduating class, an honor I had been looking forward to. Before we could come up with a permanent solution, I was allowed to go to the other art teacher's room during art. I had already finished my requirements for the IB art program, so I just needed to bide my time until the end of the year.

Then I found myself in the narrow supply closet, a hallway between the two art rooms. The other art teacher hand fed me a nectarine in a very uncomfortable and awkward encounter, and I had to get out of there completely.

I was allowed the grace of Mrs. George, one of my other teachers, who allowed me to be an aid for her on a pass/fail class so that I could escape the creepy art teacher and the angry art teacher. She provided my safe place. I never had to look at the art department again. I also never got to tell them how I felt.

I will never know why Mr. Wetzel had so much anger towards me. I suspect it was because I was intelligent, informed, and refused to submit to his ideas about art. I'm sure I wasn't his typical student, and I can't say I was always happy to be in this new town and school. He should have understood that given my circumstances. But he treated me with such anger and hatred, that it knocked me down. I ran.

Today I say: NO. Mr. Wetzel- I have become something wonderful and I've got an entire lifetime more to play and see what else I can do. I have a masters, have two beautiful children, I've been a hospice chaplain, a youth director, a hotel front desk person, a Congregational Care staff person, a caregiver for elderly, to include my grandmother, and a stay at home mom. Now I'm a writer. I amounted to so much. I ran away from your anger, and wish that I had confronted it. However, I have no desire to prove anything to you now.

It should have never been OK for you to say that to a student, no matter what. To creepy art teacher in the other room- what the hell is wrong with you? To my parents and Mrs. George: thank you. I'm so grateful I had the support network that would not allow me to believe myself unworthy and would not let me stay subjected to this bullying behavior.

My Value: Intact.

My accomplishments: humanity and love.

My Voice: Cracking that glass sound booth.