Sometimes all it takes is just one person believing in you.

I sat in English 111 nervously fidgeting my miniature tape recorder, staring at the young students laughing around me, and wondering how this class would make a difference in my life. I was 39 years old, old enough to be everyone's mother, and here I sat unknowingly unprepared for the event that would change my life forever.

Mr. Nicholson, my aging "nutty professor", entered the room and took his seat at the head of the class. Everyone was forewarned this teacher was not to be reckoned with. He broke all the rules, even the school's. That's why I wanted him. While everyone was scared of him, I hung on his every word.

He broke the school's number one rule for starting classes: to have everyone introduce themselves. This was a good one to break, for I was speechless. I couldn't have said my name, much less anything else.

I didn't know what to expect from this dynamic teacher. Everyone on the faculty staff hated him because he didn't conform to their rules. He had also had a book published, which I'm sure made him an instant hated celebrity against the humdrum backgrounds of the other teachers. I'm not sure how much he was hated, nor cared. I knew I loved him from the very start.

He started right off the bat by taking us to the world of poetry. I never understood poetry, especially Shakespearean dialect. Immediately, he understood our confusion. He taught us to take each line and interpret it in layman's language. He said it was much like an algebra equation. Break each line down. Conform the words to everyday language. It was wonderful. I could now understand the concept.

Three weeks into the course, I could turn any piece of poetry into words I could understand. Mr. Nicholson became my idol. I was mesmerized.

Sitting quietly at the back of the class, I silently took in his every word. Somehow, I knew I had to get his attention. I started writing my own poetry. Because my life was in such disarray, what with divorce proceedings and moving hither and yon, my poetry turned to the dark side. Words were coming from somewhere deep in my soul where nothing had gone before except misery, pain, and heartache. I turned out stuff I never could have written before. Mr. Nicholson had that kind of impact on me.

One day, I left a note on Mr. Nicholson's desk with three of my poems wondering if he would critique them for me. I didn't hear from him for a few days. I thought maybe he thought I was some crazy lunatic who could author such deep, dark poetry. That weekend, I pondered on this craziness. I did not write about nature, lost loves, or the usual mainstream ways of writing poetry. I wrote of my feelings of death. For, these were the feelings that were pouring out from me. I felt like dying. My life was becoming so unraveled; my inner soul was taking over. My words were my way of dealing with the torture.

That next Monday, I walked into the classroom and saw a note sitting on my desk. It read, "Ms. Thompson, I usually don't read other student's writings as they can not handle my harsh criticism. However, in your case, I make this exception. Your poetry is very different; that I urge you to consider publishing this." At the bottom of the note was the address of several publishers.

I was utterly speechless. I had finally won the admiration of the most hated teacher at the college. I had won over Mr. Nicholson and I was proud. I figured if I could win him over, the world was next.

It took many more years down the road before I tried publishing my poems. However, my day did come. Last year, "Nobody's Child" won Honorary Mention in Athina Publishing's Silver Sword Contest and will be published in their Icedlatte Quarterly Journal in the fall of 2001.

Mr. Nicholson, I thank you, wherever you are.

© Dorothy Thompson 2001