i had an english professor in college who, when i was 19 year old, was exactly who i wanted to be. she was crunchy and well-read. she hadn’t cut her hair in who knows how many years and had to move it over her shoulder so that she could sit… on her desk with her legs crossed and shoes off. she lived in a van with her husband who was a painter. we were allowed to call her by her first name.

i remember her crooked teeth. they were the cute kind of crooked. her teeth added to her eclectic nature and personality. she loved her job as a teacher. she made sure to tell us that nearly every day in class. i remember loving that she did that. it made me feel important, needed even, like she needed ME in her class in order to love her job.

her last name is one of my favorite words in the english language, inspiring in itself. i felt like it was meant to be that i was in her class, with her teaching me, with her badass last name, long hair, weird ensembles, van-living lifestyle.

i really looked up to her.

it wasn’t too long after that first semester of my sophomore year in college that i was raped. i had only been in her classroom for mere weeks before i took a week off in an attempt to figure out how the hell to go on with my life. i remember missing her class during that week. missing her. i remember worrying that she would think i was one of those slacker students who didn’t give a shit about english or any other class for that matter.

english was the only class i ever cared about in school.

in those few weeks of being in her classroom, i felt like myself. i felt like i was just beginning to tap into this writer that i longed to become. there had been teachers prior to this college professor who had impacted me and my writing in various ways, but this was different. i was an adult now, making my own decisions, figuring out who i wanted to be.

until it was all taken from me. i was taken from me. and i didn’t go to her class for a solid week.

i went to my other classes, for the most part. i didn’t care about those classes. i showed up for attendance and then stared at the dry erase boards until i was dismissed. but her class, i couldn’t make myself go. it hurt too much. i cared about that class.

eventually my fear of her thinking that i was a slacker student got the better of me and i showed up in her classroom. i didn’t participate that day, but i was there physically speaking.

i remember her asking me to stay after the rest of the class had been dismissed. it was clear she wanted to know where i had been. it was as though she knew i cared about this class and she was confused. as soon as the last student left the classroom, my eyes welled-up with tears.

i told her why i hadn’t been in class. i told her i was raped. she listened. she held my hand. she gave me tissues. she was the first person, aside from family and paul, that i had said those words to out loud.

it was real.

and when i was done talking, when i was more focused on blowing my nose than spilling my guts, she looked as though she had something to say. when she was certain she had my eyes and undivided attention, she said two words that have stuck with me for over a decade.

“me too.”

and then she wept. and i wept with her. i wasn’t alone. she wasn’t alone.

that week was her last week of teaching our class. she said that she had some demons to deal with and she quit without notice. for a while, i worried that it was my fault she left.

it wasn’t. who knows how long she had buried her story… a story she hadn’t even shared with her husband. her story needed to be told, but gently and in time. her story needed her full attention. it wasn’t my fault that she left. it was just time.

i wonder about her a lot. i hope she has made her peace. and i really hope she is happy.