Replies

More of his writing:

https://medium.com/@jthompedu?p=cad158b54554

Dear BHS Class of 2020,
I have been avoiding thinking about your graduation for a while now — not because I’m not excited for you or because I don’t want to celebrate your accomplishments. In fact, it’s because I want to share in your joy. I have been looking forward to this moment for four years, and the fact that the opportunity to honor and celebrate with you in person has been taken away is, at times, too much to bear.
You were the first ever 9th graders I taught. Four years ago when I started teaching at Blacksburg High School, I couldn’t believe I would be teaching English 9. I always told myself that I would never teach 9th grade. Like, ever. Period.
And you know what they say about saying “never.”
That year, I taught five classes of English 9. No other teacher taught English 9, meaning I taught about half of y’all. For half of the Class of 2020, I was part of your transition to high school. Looking back, I have grown immensely as an educator and now have a great grasp on the 9th grade curriculum. I hope the teacher I was then was able to help you grow as readers, writers, and people. No lie: some days, I wasn’t sure if the lesson would even go as planned; sometimes, I felt like a complete failure. But you made sure those thoughts were short-lived.
I wish I had the chance to teach you again.
After that first year, I knew I would enjoy teaching 9th grade. There’s something about 9th graders that makes teaching them so much fun and rewarding — even if I was reluctant to believe it then. And that is thanks, in part, to you.
Over the past four years, I have loved watching you grow. I’ve reveled in your accomplishments. I have felt your sadness during troubling times. You have always held and will always hold a special place in my heart.
The truth is, I regret that I never had the joy of teaching you one more time. Each year, I hoped to be able to get back in class with you, but that never happened. Still, I have loved being part of your support system outside the classroom. Whether you’ve known it or not, I have always been one of your biggest cheerleaders.
You are the first class I get to watch go through all four years of high school. In a way, your graduation is also a milestone for me. I so looked forward to standing in the hallway outside the gym, working crowd control, and having one final conversation with you before you crossed that stage. I hate that this virus took that from me. I hate that it took the final months of high school from you. Yes, we have been able to plan a graduation ceremony, but it’s not the same.
As you go off onto whatever path life gives you, I want you to remember a few things:
Laugh every day. A lot of shit will try to steal your joy. Laugh in its face.
Look out for yourself and others, especially those who are less privileged than you. So many systems are designed to bring us down. We have to work together to fight against those forces.
At least once a week, call, text, FaceTime with your mom, dad, grandparents, or whoever fills those roles for you. You may get so wrapped up in life that you forget and think there will always be more days. But let me tell you: there isn’t an infinite number of “more days.”
Read every week. I didn’t say “every day” because that’s not reasonable for all of us. It’s not reasonable for me, and I was your English teacher.
Remember that you are worthy of love and the world deserves to have you in it. And if you ever doubt that, reach out to me. I will always be here for you no matter where life takes us.
I’ll stop there because you’re going to hear a lot of stuff like this, and I don’t want to sound cliché. Which brings me to another piece of advice: always be true to yourself. I grew up in the closet, so I know how harmful it can be to deny a part of who you are.
Life is incredibly uncertain right now, but a few things I know for sure are that I have loved being your teacher, I am a better educator because of you, and y’all are going to make our world a better place.
With love,
JT

_____________________________________________

Being the Teacher I Needed
When I was a kid, I loved jumping off stuff. It started with me jumping the four feet off my grandparents’ front porch, the thud as my tennis shoes hit the ground propelling me back up the steps to do it all over again. It was even better when my bare feet felt the kiss of the grass.
As I got older, I became bolder. When my youngest aunt was a preteen, my grandpa built her a playhouse separate from their actual house. It’s a full story off the ground, supported by columns, creating a shed space beneath where we still park the lawnmower and store various yard work equipment. I would walk up the twelve or so steps leading to the playhouse, gaze out over the backyard to my left and the side yard to my right, sit down, and dangle my feet over the edge. I always felt a little afraid at that moment. The drop was huge compared to the front porch. What if I hurt myself? But there would always come the instant when the thrill of jumping outweighed the fears, and I would launch myself forward, feeling the air blow my hair around as I fell. It’s a wonder I never broke a bone doing that.
The same thing can be said for the trees I climbed. My grandparents’ yard was and still is full of tall, beautiful, majestic trees: oak, poplar, pine, cedar, maple, and — my favorite — magnolia. Climbing as high as I could was a personal challenge for me, and I loved the journey back to the ground, especially when I had cleared enough of the branches and could jump down.
Now, Mama and Granny didn’t exactly approve of my outdoor activities. I can still hear them telling me, “Don’t be climbin’ no trees and jumpin’ off nothin’. You’re gonna hurt yourself one of these days.” But I was a kid. That feeling of falling before my feet hit the ground was exhilarating. I felt free — well, as free as I could. I was a climber, a jumper, a son, a grandson, a brother, a nephew, but there was one part of my identity I couldn’t share.
I’ve known that I’m gay since I was five years old. I can’t tell you exactly how I knew; I just did. I knew I was different, and I also knew intuitively that I shouldn’t talk about it. I’m from rural Southwestern Virginia. It’s a conservative area and part of the Bible Belt. Even as a child, I knew I had to keep that part of myself secret. It’s a story all too common for many queer people. I grew up in the ’90s. Visible and accepted queerness wasn’t part of the social consciousness as much as it is today. Thinking back, it’s strange: I’ve always known that, despite what some family members, friends, classmates, the media, and the Bible said, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with being gay, but I knew I had to hide it, act like it was an abomination in order to keep myself safe.
I remained in the closet for 19 years. I first came out to my best friend when I was in college. By the time I was a junior, the majority of my friends, classmates, and professors knew, but I stayed closeted in regards to my family. When I went home for breaks and visits, I shut off an entire part of my identity. I was literally living two different lives. It hurt. I felt like I lied every time I came home. I just couldn’t face the thought of telling them.
I often wonder how my life might’ve turned out differently if I had a queer-affirming teacher in high school (better yet, an openly queer teacher). In fact, I first came out because of a teacher, Nikki Giovanni. I took several of Nikki’s classes in undergrad. My first was Intro to Creative Writing. I wrote a poem about a guy longing to be out of the closet. She must’ve seen right through that poem because she told me that I have nothing to be ashamed of and that the world needed my energy so I should feel okay to be free.
Nikki probably doesn’t remember that moment happening and probably has no idea the tremendous impact she’s had on me, but I am who I am today in part because of her love, encouragement, and mentorship. That’s the power teachers have, and it’s the reason why I’m writing.
I’m writing this for my students, for all my students, former and future.
Since the first moment I stepped inside a classroom as an instructor of First-Year Writing at Virginia Tech, I’ve never totally hidden my queer identity. Granted, I was more open teaching at the university level than I have been as a high school teacher. But I’ve also not been completely open and honest, and it’s time to change that.
This past year, I came out to my family, and for the most part, they accepted me fully. I have felt the pure joy and strength of living openly. When people say it’s like having a boulder lifted off your chest, they’re not lying. For the first time, I feel like I can truly breathe. I’m finally in a place where I am ready to transfer that openness and honesty to the classroom. I want to be the teacher I needed but never had in high school.
To my knowledge, the LGBTQ+ students at my school do not currently have an openly out teacher as a role model. Yes, we have queer-affirming teachers in our school, and I am so thankful to be a part of that support system. I take my obligation as a teacher to uplift and amplify queer voices, texts, and experiences in my curricula seriously. But we can do better. We can always do better. Our straight students see their identities reflected in their teachers every single day. It’s past time that our LGBTQ+ students did too.
One student in particular is part of the reason I’ve felt compelled to be as open and honest as I am. She has no idea the impact she has had on my life. On the last day of class, like several students, she gave me a note. I include it here with her permission. She wrote,

“I just wanted to tell you how much your class had an impact on me, because sometimes I don’t think teachers realize how much they actually help their students. I’ve never really had a class or teacher that mentioned any sort of sexuality until this year. So when I was coming to terms with my own sexuality this year, in a way your classroom made me feel safe. You showed me that not being straight wasn’t something to be ashamed of and wasn’t that big of a deal after all. I just wanted to say thank you.”

As students were leaving at the end of class, I read that note. I cried because, in that moment, I realized I did something for her that no teacher had ever done for me in high school. At the same time, I knew that it would have made an even greater difference had I been open about my queer identity. That feeling and that thought have weighed on me ever since.
Some will probably call this piece radical, but it’s not. It’s me being myself, the teacher and person I’ve always been. And yet being in a country and society that actively tries to erase your identity and even your life, living openly and honestly as a queer person is itself a radical act.
I guess it’s like when I was a kid dangling my feet over the edge. Up until this point, I’ve waited, felt hesitant to take that leap, afraid of hurting myself. But now I’m ready to jump, ready to feel the breeze rush past my ears, and excited because I know I’ll stick the landing.
Here we go.