"I'll see you in August."

I had a lot of issues with depression and suicidal thoughts in high school. Junior year, I took a college history class with a teacher who was known to be laid back. 

When the end of the year neared, I became wary of the summer because I would no longer see this wonderful teacher. He had become the only thing I looked forward to, and I think he knew that. 

When I went to say goodbye, I asked him, "What was your favorite part of this year?"

He smiled and said, "You were my favorite." 

With a few tears cascading down my face, I said, "I'll miss you, you know?" 

And he nodded, smiling, and said, "And I'll see you in August." 

It was because of him telling me I had to be back there in August that I stopped feeling suicidal. I stopped feeling as sad. Following a pretty awful breakup that summer, and a summer of pains, coming back to school and seeing my teacher's bright face and calming demeanor made me feel whole again.

I realized that he wasn't just my teacher. He surpassed that and became my friend. And seeing his face light up with such simple joys, well, it made me feel at home. And there is no place I'd rather be.

"It's okay; I'm fat too!"

When I was 9, I was a little more developed than everyone else. One day in class, I walked past a table of kids and I heard one boy say, "Oh, she's so fat!" 

I confronted them, and soon the teacher came by to see what was going on. At first the kids denied having said anything, but eventually the boy confessed, saying, "It's okay; I'm fat too!" 

As if that made it okay. 

A year later, I changed schools and met my two best friends. I'm fifteen now, and we're still best friends. They don't care how I look, and because of their love and support, neither do I. 

"I guess I did screw up minorly."

Ever since I can remember, I had difficulties in school, and I was always really socially awkward. Starting in second grade, I was severely teased for being different. 

My second grade teacher was so supportive and kind, and he advocated that I get tested to find out why I was different from everyone else. But after I was tested, my mother, who I refer to as "Birthgiver" made sure I never found out the results. 

I used to come home in tears, begging to know why I was so different, and she would say things like, "What did you do to them first to make them tease you?" "You're lazy and don't apply yourself." "The only way I can get through to you is by hitting you." "You need to stop being such a baby." 

By high school, I finally just stopped asking why I was different. Stopped telling her in detail about how cruel kids were to me. I just started saying "I'm fine," and, "School was fine."

I started dating someone at age 19, got married and divorced, and didn't speak to my birthgiver for eight years. 

When I finally reached out to her, I hoped that she had realized her faults in our relationship.  Instead of taking accountability for what she did, she just said. "Oh, yeah, I guess I did screw up minorly by not telling you that you have autism."

That has always stuck with me. If I had known I had autism sooner, and she had gotten me some additional help from outside school, maybe I wouldn't have struggled for so long.
 

Smart

When I was in school, teachers didn't know about dyslexia, ADHD, or PTSD. They didn't understand my stutter, so I stopped talking, and just did the best I could to keep up and not get noticed by my teachers anymore. 

They did notice. All through my youth I was told I was "stupid," "deliberately acting dumb," and "failing tests on purpose." I was told I would never graduate. I got lumped in with the bad crowd, and wore my "dumbness" with pride. Until I met my 8th grade math teacher. 

Math was always my worst subject. Dyslexia turns timed multiplication tests into an instant panic attack. My former math teachers told me that they let me pass their classes just so they wouldn't have to deal with me again.
 
But this one teacher. He kept me after class and helped me with homework. He walked me through tests so I would slow down enough to finish them. And then one day, out of the blue, he told me I was smart, and that my brain just worked too fast for anyone else to keep up.

In all of my 15 years, nobody had ever called me smart. 

With that one little comment, I started passing classes. I ended up graduating not only high school, but college, too. My stutter slowed, and now, years later, I still truly believe that I'm smart.  

That one math teacher that took time out of his overworked days to tell the dumb kid she was smart. That's what stuck with me.
 

"Why is Pooh black?"

Junior year of high school, we put on Winnie the Pooh as our spring play, and we performed the show at all of the local elementary schools. 

Our cast was mostly black, as is the population of our town. When we brought the play to schools that were also mostly black, the children adored us. We were big, fuzzy rock stars! 

However, when we brought it to the suburban and private elementary schools, the little kids were fearful of us. They would ask their teacher, "Why is Pooh black?"

My cast-mates were uncomfortable. The kids didn't laugh very much. Our director blamed it on low cast energy, but we knew him too well to know that he was just trying to ignore the obvious. Those kids didn't see themselves represented for probably the first time in their lives, and they didn't know how to deal with it. I learned a lot about racism and media representation that day.

Now whenever I hear someone complaining about a fictional character being non-white, I always think back to those little suburban kids, confused at their lack of representation for the first time and not knowing how to handle it. Except the people I'm referring to are grown adults with access to plenty of white characters to relate to.
 

"That looks like a cartoon."

As a kid I always loved painting, and when I got to middle school, I finally had a chance to take a real art class.

We were working on landscapes, and I decided to paint a mountain range based on a real photo. I was really proud of my work so far, and I was so happy to have a whole class period in school dedicated to this beloved hobby. 

The teacher came up to me and looked at my painting in disgust. She said, "That sky is ridiculous! Skies are not that deep blue in real life. They're light grey. Almost white. That looks like a cartoon."

I tried to tell her that I was going directly off the blue of the sky in the photo, but she insisted I change it.

To this day, twenty years later, whenever I see a deep, rich blue sky in real life, I still think of her. 

"Your hair doesn't look THAT bad today."

Growing up, I was picked on constantly, but most of the kids who bullied me eventually stopped by middle/high school. Except for one girl in particular. She was the band director's stepdaughter, basically making it impossible for me to do anything about it. 

I'll never forget the day when we got our pictures taken in our marching band uniforms. I had just gotten my hair cut and highlighted the day before, and thought I looked really pretty. 

She walked up to me and said, "Oh, your hair doesn't look THAT bad today." 

I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach.
 

"You're strong, and you should never forget that."

My art teacher was the one teacher who helped me with my mental illness. He never pointed out when I lost or gained weight, or when it was obvious that I was hiding the new wounds on my arms and legs.  He made sure I ate lunch in his classroom every day because he knew I had an eating disorder. Most days I just ate an apple, but seeing someone put forth so much effort into my well-being helped me more than he will ever know.

I came back to visit him after I graduated, and he told me, "When you first started coming to class your freshman year, I thought we were going to lose you before you graduated."

Then he smiled and said, "But you made it. And you did it on your own. You're strong, and you should never forget that. I'm proud of you."
 

"I had no idea you were good!"

I started taking singing lessons senior year of high school, and I loved it. At my very last lesson, before leaving for college, I sang my heart out on a song we'd been working on for a while. My teacher was really impressed, which made me so happy, but then she said, "Whoa, why didn't you sing like that the whole time? I had no idea you were good!" 

This made me so sad, and her comment has stuck with me. If she thought I was bad this whole time, why did she just passively keep it to herself? Why didn't she try to actually help me improve? 

And I hated that she made her comment in a tone that implied that we were both surprised that I was actually good, and that the general understanding was that my default was "bad."
 

"Heck of an arm."

In fourth grade, I attended Carnival Day at school. I tried to dunk one of the teachers in the dunk tank, but I couldn't quite hit the target. When my turn was over, I walked away, and a man came up to me and introduced himself as a local little league coach. He asked me, "Do you know you have a heck of an arm there? Do you play for any team?" I told him no, and he strongly encouraged me to come to tryouts. I told my mom when I got home, but nothing ever came of it. 

Looking back, I'm sure I would have loved playing ball, but it was that compliment that stuck with me. My home was a very angry place to grow up. I never got compliments or encouragement really of any kind. We were either invisible, or in trouble and getting screamed at. I vividly remember just about every compliment I ever received as a child because of the feeling of empowerment it gave me. Those compliments became my identity.

You never know what a person has to deal with in their life. Just be nice, always. Your kind words might be what sticks with someone else.