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A couple of years ago, I received a brief, yet nice note from Andrew Vachss about a project that was underway to help teachers better understand and assist students who may display symptoms or behaviors of abuse. The project was conceived by John Seryak, an educator in the public school system for over two decades, and the goals of the project were positive: Invite adults, who survived childhood abuse, to speak of their experiences directly to educators and increase understanding and raise awareness. I read through the guidelines, sat down, and, in an evening, had written an open letter for the Dear Teacher Project. That was not my intent when I began writing; it was to walk myself through the process to discover, for myself, how others who might have wished to contribute may have felt once they had completed writing -- to make sure that if I published information about the project that I also make certain to print information for accessing resources appropriate for those who may contribute: Survivors.

The following morning, I called John -- to make sure the information and guidelines I received were read accurately by me prior to publishing an announcement about the project. Though John recalls that I was poised as I shared what I had written, I only remember feeling discomfort initially -- worried that I might mispronounce words and, surely, he would notice. He was silent, and that inspired me to feel a bit nervous. I waited for him to say something, to say anything after I'd stopped reading. But there was a silence that felt as if it stretched to eternity. When he did speak -- finally -- I don't even remember what he said. I think the tone of his voice, though, said plenty. He asked me if I could send him the letter and a consent to publish form -- permitting him to publish the letter in the book: Dear Teacher.

Having been involved with the project from its early days, I can't review the book objectively. I can state, however, it was an extremely enriching journey to share with John, and with the additional survivors who opened their hearts with the idea to reach and teach others.

Here are some impressions others have shared after reading Dear Teacher.

"Informative, vital information for all educators, counselors, health care professionals, police officers, and everyone concerned with child abuse. John Seryak wrote this book for you. Read it and learn 'the signs' that we've all seen and suspected." Officer Ed Wilson, D.A.R.E. Officer, Bath Police Department, Akron, Ohio

"A heart wrenching collection of letters revealing the hidden dimensions of teachers' impact on the educational and emotional formation of their students for better or worse. It's a wake-up call for teachers and other professionals." Richard D. Clewell, D.Min., LPCC, Trauma Counselor

"My heart is filled with so many emotions... Dear Teacher reinforces the difference a teacher can make in the life of a child." Annette Kratcoski, Ph.D.

Their opinions of the project furthered the benefits of having contributed. Each person who consented for John to include a narrative entrusted that no one's life wouldn't be harmed in the process. I knew, immediately seeing the project's result -- all the histories presented in a book -- that something important was attained: Understanding that we had been denied as children. Compassion from readers offering their observations on the account of our lives. To this day, I can't bring myself to read clearly the letter closing the pages of the book: An open letter to the writers of Dear Teacher from Carolyn Horvath, formerly Sr. Mary Carolyn, who taught school for 19 years. Her letter is one asking forgiveness -- from students abused and unnoticed, till now. I cried when I first read it, and still do.

There is much I could relay about what the project meant to me, yet mostly it's a symbol of strength: The ability of people who, historically, have been given every reason not to trust others, doing precisely that -- trusting that the project held promise: Educators receptive to receiving information. There may be some who choose to criticize. That's fine. They didn't live the abuse felt by each person on an individual level; the book is a review of the effects, and not a walk through each person's day-to-day hell and the obstacles and steps taken to heal. Survivors who opened their lives did so freely -- no monetary compensation provided or sought -- with a heartfelt desire to help: Children. I feel privileged to have been in the class with twenty-three peers who graduated to Dear Teacher © 1997.

The following is a brief overview from the book's introduction by John Seryak, and it is followed by the letter I shared in Dear Teacher. To people who wish to remain in denial about child abuse, choose to excuse it or doubt another person's account: Feel free to read some thoughts on the subject of my life by my former attorney, whose friendship I treasure, Mary K. Stroube. Just scoll down when you link and you'll reach "In Other Words"; if you don't believe, well, think about this: You weren't there -- with me and with others abused.

".... The Dear Teacher Project was conceived to reach out and speak to educators in a clear and enlightening format. The idea was to collect letters to an imagined or real teacher from adults recovering from sexual abuse and neglect experiences. The imagined teacher acted as a surrogate for all real teachers. Through the responses of the contributors, all teachers could benefit from the message...." John Seryak relates. "The format for this work entails a short introduction to the author of the letter. Their story is then presented in its entirety. I will comment on what I see as significant. It must be stressed that this is not a psychological analysis of the writers or their words. The letters' main purpose is to give the reader an insight to help understand the abused student's behavior."

My first response to the Dear Teacher Project came as a phone call from Anne M. Cox. She called from California one Saturday afternoon introducing herself as a private publisher and a political activist for the issue of childhood abuse. She was very encouraging about the possibilities of the Dear Teacher Project. With great poise, she proceeded to read the letter she wrote. I listened intently and marvelled at the content and teaching messages it contained. Every letter and interview since then has increased my awareness of the challenges students face in the light of living with abuse and neglect.

Anne's letter contains issues of trust, fear, dysfunction, hidden physical pain, outward emotional pain, and hope-filled recovery. I invite you to read Anne's letter.

Dear Teacher,

You may not know this about me: I went through 11 years of school having to rely on my fingers to add and subtract. Forget division and multiplication. I couldn't solve such problems. (And, to date, I don't know how to calculate for leaving a tip at a restaurant.) I wasn't lacking comprehension skills or intelligence. It was that my parents kept me home from school so frequently that I couldn't keep up with my classmates; it was that I feared telling anyone that I couldn't see what was written in chalk on the blackboard when my desk was at the back of the classroom; it was that I didn't know how to relate to children my age to ask for their help with homework or classroom assignments because my parents moved our family nearly every other year, and I didn't know how to make friends; it was that there were plenty of addition and subtraction problems presented on tests that helped me earn marginal, passing grades.

I was the child who missed, not skipped, kindergarten, since my parents refused to meet the school district's requirement that I wear protective head gear because of a flaw in the formation of my skull, a medical condition (abuse-related). I was the little girl who went to first grade and was too frightened to raise my hand to ask if I could go to the bathroom and I wet myself instead. (My parents' displays of verbal and physical battering had instilled in me that it was best not to ask for anything, and I didn't dare make a move without their permission; I learned how to behave properly in public places. A store was my first classroom; my father beat me, as other adults passed down the same aisle nonchalantly, if I moved from the spot in which he told me to stand. My parents were omniscient, I believed.) I was the one who could not -- and still cannot -- remember the first grade teacher's name; there were three or four. I'm sorry, I didn't keep very good score.

I was the third grade student who excelled in reading and writing until the teacher accused me of cheating; the fourth grader who refused to read anymore and who clung to the teacher by the end of the year because only she didn't laugh when I mispronounced certain words and I couldn't explain the theme or plot of books I pretended to have read, which she seemed to sense. I was the child in fifth grade who sat on the sidelines at recess, who appeared tired, who told the teacher that my father was dead (though he wasn't) because I didn't want to get in trouble for not going to school when my parents made me stay home because I was sore or bleeding too much. I was the same little girl who was reprimanded following "show-and-tell" because I admitted one day, "My father makes me eat rotten meat," and no one believed me after he was called to the school and said, "She's lying."

Yes, it was me, the child who was caught more than once returning to school late after lunch because I went to a convenience store down the street to steal food; I also broke into someone's house and invaded the refrigerator. I didn't think I could tell anyone why I was late and I was punished (given more homework than I could possibly finish since I had to take care of my mother and father at night). And there I was, in fifth and sixth grades, towering above all my classmates who may have believed that calling me "Olive Oil" and "toothpick" were terms of endearment. The only thing I was, was hungry, yet no one could see it.

By sixth grade, I spent more time in the principal's office than in the classroom it seemed. The essays I wrote were all wrong. The principal asked: "Where did you learn that?!?"; "Who told you that?!?"; "Where did you see that?!?" I was a child ... with conservative (authoritarian) parents. The school viewed their word as gospel and accepted their explanation for one of my "imaginative" essays, for example, titled "Behind the Green Door," all about the activities of the nude people roaming around in my "active imagination." The principal was very impressed: He held a number of conferences -- with teachers, secretaries, my parents and their "li'l storyteller." I was rewarded, assigned to classes for"gifted" students.

I was sent home from school with a note for my mother from my P.E. teacher the last day of the first week of seventh grade. It said that I would fail gym class if I didn't wear the proper clothing; the suggestion was that my mother buy me a bra. I returned instead with a note that excused me from participating in physical education activities. And, once again, we moved.

At my new school, I wrote more. Starvation, fires, orphaned children: Those were some of the topics I picked to address in seventh and eighth grades. Writing went well, but math and science, pure hell (and I took physics in college and passed easily). I doubt that I was "lazy" or "dumb" as some students and teachers teased. I think my brain was exhausted. I couldn't think during the day; the middle-of-the-night rages and rapes kept me up too late. School was a break from the horrors at home, where sleeping simply wasn't the safe or sane thing to do. Yet, no one at school knew by the darkness encircling my eyes and my ashen skin tone.

All the times I was late for classes during high school, well, I missed the bus and had to walk. I didn't tell anyone that I had asked my mother to drive me, only she sceamed, "Don't bug me! Go away! Leave me alone!" I wasn't assertive; I was extremely scared. I didn't know that I could've gone into the administration building and explained: "My mother was sleeping when I asked her for a ride since I missed the bus. She doesn't want me around. She sleeps with a pair of real long, shiny, silver scissors under her pillow and I'm afraid to ask if she'll change her mind about driving me to school." My choice was to walk rather than to ask her again and risk angering her more.

The number of in-class assignments that I didn't complete, I can't even begin to count. I thought the reason that I couldn't grasp a pencil or pen very well was because my fingers were still numb from the chill and moisture in the air. But, once my hands warmed-up, I believed that I would catch up. My ability to perform suffered, and my lousy grades plummeted even farther. I hadn't considered that my fingers may have been hurt as I attempted blocking my father's -- inches wide -- leather belt with my hands as he hit me. I didn't know then that children and adolescents could be affected by arthritis (which may manifest from repeated stress or injury to the body), and that my inability to sit comfortably for stretches of time could be a medical condition (arthritis affecting my hands, hips and sternum diagnosed -- by a rheumatologist -- as a young adult).

I don't know how I could've been missed. I didn't blend with the crowd. Most of the time I stood out; I was alone, surrounded by flocks of students and teachers, during school hours. That I ever made friends was a miracle, though most friendships were rather short-lived. One year, I'd be at one school, and, then, before I knew it, we were moving again -- in the middle of the school year, sometimes in the middle of the night. My father was not in an occupation that required relocating and uprooting continuously; he worked at the same company (at the same site) from the 1960s to his retirement (decades later). No one noticed all the abrupt moves reflected in the school transcripts transferred from one district to another and on and on. No one questioned it, though there was a pattern that had emerged; my parents continued moving from the time I was a toddler till I ran away at age 16 (which is when they stopped relocating themselves).

While it's understandable how subtle indicators or potential signs of abuse and child maltreatment could go unnoticed by school personnel, it's more difficult for me to accept how obvious or blatant trauma to a child might be overlooked.

Throughout high school, writing remained my primary medium for trying to release pain, my utmost effort to "tell" what was happening to me at home. I was kept after school one day, in the tenth grade, at the request of my teacher. She wanted to discuss with me a paper I'd written about an abortion. We talked about it in-depth. I'd also spoken with the high school principal. He had become a confidant. Once a week, he and the vice principal even attended my gourmet foods cooking class to test what I'd made. I thought nothing bad could happen with them around. As long as they were present on campus, my world felt more secure.

The feeling was shattered when one of my teachers stood in front of two classes -- in which I was enrolled -- and repeated things to all the students about my life at home that I'd told the principal in confidence. I didn't know the words betrayed or violation applied to the situation until I became an adult, but it was the most excruciating emotional pain I'd felt from a source outside my family. Boys in the classes started rumors about me, which inspired many students and teachers to "believe" that I was "easy" or promiscuous. I hated having to go to my classes with the teacher making slimy comments about me in front of everyone. I started to walk out after one of his stand-up routines. He stopped me and said, "You don't have a hall pass." I left anyway, and he reported me to the dean. I failed his classes and was referred to remedial classes and, as a result, withstood the beatings and sexual assaults from my father.

I devoted the eleventh grade to getting drunk, which I didn't attempt to mask from anyone at school or at home. I had alcohol on campus and drank it there; I placed the empty bottles on top in the garbage cans. I didn't try to hide anything. I didn't care anymore. I'd been suspended twice and was nearly expelled.

I ran away from home (as I had done when I was 8-years-old). The principal knew the reason; I sat in his office and we talked about it. He gave me the telephone number for the private line directly to his office. Oh, it wasn't that he wanted to help me. He offered me the number in case I changed my mind and wanted to engage in sexual activity with him. My mistake was in telling him that I was living with a man -- I was led to believe was in his forties but was actually in his fifties. The point is: I was a minor.

The principal was aware of the abuse I experienced at home and of the living arrangements I'd made since running away from home, and since my parents refused to have me living with them unless I met their list of twenty-five conditions they enumerated on paper. A law was in effect (I've discovered as an adult) that mandated that school personnel report suspected cases of child abuse to authorities. Two educators were aware of the subtle and obvious signs of abuse, yet didn't act responsibly on the information.

A teacher I'd had, at a different high school, lived in the same area as me. I went to his house after I'd run away from home. I didn't speak with him about the abuse. Yet, when I saw him again after I'd been living with a man roughly 30 years my senior, the teacher had information available that clearly indicated abuse was ever-so-present. He knew that I was still a minor, and he was the next-door neighbor of the man's sister; he knew how much older the man was. No report was made. (I left the man with whom I'd been living. He was subsequently arrested and pleaded nola contendre -- no contest -- to charges of child molestation in a case involving a 10-year-old girl; he was a registered sex offender until he died on April 15, 1995.)

I'm not so certain the nature of trauma a child experiences is "hidden." I think, more often, it's overlooked. Getting involved is a challenge -- emotionally.

As I reflect and think of the teachers who may have realized something wasn't quite right or that abuse may have been occurring, I wish that they would have acted on what they might have suspected or even knew. At the same time, however, I understand why they wouldn't want to get involved. Child maltreatment is potentially volatile; it's domestic violence. Abusive or neglectful parents may regard their children as property and emotions are inflamed by parents not wanting others to interfere in the control of their "property." My parents were violent, not only toward me, but also overtly abusive toward their siblings and acquaintances, to whom their abuse of me was patently clear.

Educators who filled a role in my life did no less than my own adult relatives: They stayed out of "it." Getting involved might have been a dangerous proposition back then. The safeguards and protections for educators reporting reasonably suspected cases of child abuse weren't well-established or as firmly in place as they are now.

Had it not been for the time I spent at school, away from home, I don't know that I would have had anywhere safe to go -- to escape the emotional, physical and sexual violence plaguing my childhood and adolescence.

Gestures that some teachers make and may consider routine might be the rays of hope a traumatized child sees shining through the bleakness. I can't multiply or divide without a calculator, but, more important, I know how to add and subtract because of a first grade teacher who gave me little plastic cars to count as I stood with my classmates who knew the answers off the tops of their heads. A teacher offered me tools that indicated giving up was not the solution. Making adjustments and discovering the choices available were the lessons I was guided toward understanding.

Teachers may be lifelines for children in crisis. Adult relatives briefly entered my life and turned away as rapidly as possible. All that I had left was school, my saving grace: I want you to know about me, the traumatized child who somehow survived.

Anne's letter illustrates a tragic home environment; her parents moved often to different school districts. [She points out that her father was employed by the same company in the same location for her entire school experience. Therefore, only her school districts changed, not her geographical location.] Her frequent moves pose problems for Anne as a student. Transient students are commonplace in today's mobile society. Teachers are accustomed to making adjustments for new students. This challenge is met successfully. While on the surface, Anne's transition appears smooth, a closer look could give the teacher a clue to unusual behaviors and poor academic performance.

This obviously is only one indication of Anne's troubled family. The dysfunction and abuse went much deeper than most educators would or could have noticed.

Due to the fear Anne experienced, she wet herself in first grade. This is not uncommon for a first-grade teacher to observe, but one that a teacher may mentally store for future reference. Being aware, being observant, collecting many puzzle pieces in a child's behavior may reveal to the teacher important information for future effective intervention....

Like other letters from survivors, Anne told her teachers and principal through her writing that something was not right. The school accepted the parents' explanations rather than see what might have been a possibility -- subtle hints to the teacher about an unhealthy homelife. Do we read students' writing closely enough? Do we just evaluate for grammar and mechanics? What about the writers' voice and tone? Do we see? Do we hear?

.... In Anne's middle school years, she is unsuccessful in math and science. Her explanation, as an adult, is that she was just too mentally exhausted. This exhaustion is mentioned frequently by other survivors in interviews. Surviving sexual, physical, and psychological abuse at home requires a disproportionate amount of energy that leaves little emotional or mental power to use for academic study.

Anne did find school a "safe" and "sane" place to rest. This is so important for educators to realize. Teachers are seen by our students as safe adults to be around. Schools are a haven of safety for students. This is a very high compliment, and speaks to the sacred trust of our profession. We should accept it and own it....

As Anne documents how her situation deteriorated, the clues or pieces to her life become even more apparent. Now, more than ever before, teachers must have known something was wrong; some intervention was necessary. The system failed her. What could have been done?

While not a typical scenario, the dramatic betrayal Anne experienced from one principal and the turning of other teachers' heads had to make her journey into adulthood even more difficult. The support she needed from adults in trusted positions was not available.

It is a tribute to Anne's strength as a survivor that she concludes her letter in a most positive tone with encouragement for educators.... Her negative school experiences are overshadowed by the hopeful reality that schools are safe places and teachers "may be lifelines."

Dear Teacher
Copyright © 1997, ISBN 0-9659421-0-4
~ $12.95, plus 2.00 shipping and handling ~
P.O. Box 11, Bath, Ohio 44210-0011.

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