Her name was Miss Bruggemann.

Her name was Miss Bruggemann. She was my 7th and 8th grade English teacher. She inspired my first dance with words as the music from my heart encouraged the pen to glide on paper as if I had been writing from the womb. I had written my first poem about apartheid after we had just finished reading Cry the Beloved Country by Alan Paton. I don’t remember much of the poem, except for these lines:

Day by day
We come upon
People who are different
Who do not belong
They may be different
From the outside view
But may not be different
By what they do…

Feelings of great sadness and unlimited hope rise like waves in my heart and then break meekly against the shore of humanity, of misunderstanding and compassion as I fondly remember my first deep experience with writing. My vulnerability and opening to this type of exploration could not have occurred without Miss B. She was the first adult in my life who provided the space for all feelings, unpleasant and pleasant to flow like a river to meet the ocean without any dams of inhibition or embarrassment.

I also remember the day she took me out of line as my classmates and I were walking to Wednesday church service (it was a Lutheran school). Quite sternly, she asked me to wash all my eye shadow off. At the time I felt small and criticized, and could not comprehend her motivation for scolding me when most of the other girls had also painted their faces with makeup.

Years later, the awareness came like the first light of morning, a sliver at first, then widespread understanding that could no longer be contained or ignored.
She was sharing her wisdom with me, so simple yet so profound.

“You don’t have to hide anymore.”

As I continue to work with all the judgments from childhood, and reflect on how I have carried a load of critical books heavier than my high school back pack, I am ready to let them all go. But I will hold on to the memory of Miss B like a Pulitzer Prize I give to myself for everything I have written. The words are not worthy of praise because of their cleverness or artistic placement. Perhaps they are worthy because they are beginning to flow naturally from this woman who no longer wants to be contained, but free to express her experience without guilt or uncertainty.

Miss B, I am starting to believe you.