I failed English in the 10th grade.

Yet today, I’m a writer.

That’s because of a teacher I had in the 11th and 12th grade.

The year I failed, I heard one call me lazy. They didn’t know the darkness I faced. I didn’t fully understand it, either, not then.

But this new teacher, she saw me. You can really write, she said, reminding me of that over and over, even though I was barely passing.

And now, because of her, I’m a writer.

She’s in her 80s now. We are friends. I love you, she says. I love you too, I say. And, I really do.

Today, on the release of my second memoir, I celebrate her, and all teachers who help a child know they can do it, that they are enough.