A few months ago, I performed in “Matt and Jeni Are Unprepared,” a storytelling improv show in which audience members provide my storytelling partner, Jeni Bonaldo, and me with prompts, from which we tell true stories on the spot.
The audience then determines whose stories are better.
It’s competitive storytelling on a highwire, and I love it. And despite complaining about the format, Jeni is brilliant. I can’t imagine doing such a thing with anyone else.
In the game’s final round of our most recent show, my prompt was “Post-it note.” As an added layer of difficulty, the final round also requires a genre of story, too, because nothing can be too easy.
Reaching from a bowl of genres, I chose “Tragedy.”
Unfortunately, I had a story to tell.
It’s a story I haven’t told many people before, but given the prompt and the genre, it seemed like the right time to finally tell it onstage.
And now here.
Back in 2005, I was fortunate enough to be named West Hartford’s Teacher of the Year, and a few months later, I was named one of three finalists for Connecticut’s Teacher of the Year. It was one of the greatest honors of my life, and it came with some lovely perks:
I delivered a speech at our school district’s convocation the following year, and nearly twenty years later, I still receive kind words about it.
My principal honored me with a surprise parade in the circle in front of our school. As I returned from lunch with him and a fellow Teacher of the Year finalist from my school in a red convertible, we were greeted by the student body and colleagues lining the circle, waving signs and cheering.
It’s a moment I’ll never forget.
I also rode in local parades, worked on important committees, delivered more speeches throughout the district, and enjoyed a lovely year of accolades and honors.
Honestly, I couldn’t believe any of it. A decade earlier, I had been homeless, jailed, and awaiting trial for a crime I did not commit. I could barely feed myself. I was the victim of a horrific robbery, overwhelmed with a mountain of legal debt, and had no parents to help me. I was 23 years old and had yet to make it to college.
I thought I never would.
Then, after a great deal of struggle and hard work, my dream of becoming a teacher finally came true. Shortly after that, I was honored for doing that job well.
Elysha and I were teaching side by side at the time, engaged to be married, which made that year even more special.
Then something extraordinary happened.
The following year, our school librarian, Kathy Paquette, was named Teacher of the Year. Two educators from our school were named Teacher of the Year in consecutive years in a district of 16 schools and more than 1,000 teachers. It was a great honor for our school and an indication of how well our faculty performed as educators.
Two years later, a third teacher from our school would also be named Teacher of the Year.
I was thrilled for my friend Kathy. Elysha and I, alongside many of our friends, attended the Teacher of the Year banquet, where she was announced as the winner.
Much celebrating ensued.
The next morning, I walked through the doors of my school and down the hallway to my classroom. As I went to insert my key into the lock to open the door, I saw a yellow Post-it note affixed to the door at eye level. It read:
“Finally someone deserving.”
It broke my heart.
I had no idea who would place such a thing on my door, and I had no inclination that anyone in my school felt this way about me, but apparently, someone did. Some anonymous coward had taken the time to steal joy and inject doubt and fear into my life with the simple stroke of a pen.
With one tiny piece of paper, all of the joy and excitement of the previous night was washed away.
Though it made no sense, I also felt ashamed. Ashamed that someone would think this of me. Ashamed that perhaps their words were true. Maybe I hadn’t been deserving of the honor in the previous year. Perhaps I was a fraud.
Staring at that note, I made a decision:
No one would ever know about this Post-it note. I wouldn’t allow it to tarnish the excitement of Kathy’s great honor, nor would I allow it to fester in the minds of Elysha or any of my friends as I knew it would in mine. So I threw it away, tried to forget it, and pretended it never existed.
Later that year, the sentiment behind that note—and likely the person or people responsible for that note—would take further action against me in a far darker and more insidious way, but that is a long, complex, almost unbelievable story for another day.
I eventually told Elysha about that Post-it note and told school officials about it when it became necessary. Still, other than that small handful of people, I had kept that story to myself for nearly two decades.
Then, the combination of a prompt, a genre, and an improv storytelling show finally pried it from me. It wasn’t an easy story to tell, and I suspect it wasn’t easy to hear, but I was happy to finally share it with the world.
Two days later, on a Monday morning, I entered my school and walked down the hallway to my classroom. As I went to insert my key into the lock and open the door, I saw two yellow Post-it notes affixed to the door at eye level.
It’s the same door where I found that original note back in 2006.
They read:
You are a brilliant author and teacher and storyteller and wouldn’t it be fun to say, “How do you like me now?”
It had been affixed to the door by a colleague who had been in the audience that night and had heard the story.
She is also our school’s most recent West Hartford Teacher of the Year.
My heart soared.
The sting of that note from nearly two decades ago still stupidly remains, but my friend is right:
Despite the efforts of some to punch a hole in my reputation and destroy my career, I am still standing, a quarter century into my teaching career, and I am successful, happy, and respected. I love my job, my colleagues, my students, and my school.
I’m fortunate enough to have many ways to earn a living these days, but I choose to remain a teacher because it’s what I love to do.
My hope is that the person who left that note knows exactly how joyous I am today. I hope they know how much I love teaching and how happy I am to still share a classroom—that very same classroom— with my students.
Mostly, I hope they know that they failed.
I was deserving of that Teacher of the Year honor in 2005. Others were equally deserving, too, I’m sure. Many of my colleagues could just as easily have won Teacher of the Tear in 2005, but for some blessed reason, it was my year to be honored. Despite that cowardly act and all the terrible, heartless acts that would follow, I still look back on that honor with great affection and joy.
But my friend’s note helps, too. It replaces one ugly image with a far better one.
I also told my story. I stopped allowing that moment to remain in the shadows. It gave my friend a chance to make it a little better.
I’ll be forever grateful.
