The Forgiveness Project

Last week, my friend told me our high school drama club coach had died.

My first real kiss was from this man, who was also my ninth grade English teacher. For some reason, he took an interest in me; he praised my writing and cast me as the lead in the school play. I was 13, waiting backstage opening night, about to make my entrance as Anne Frank in “The Diary of Anne Frank.” His moustache tickled. He told me the kiss was for luck.

I saw him again at the start of tenth grade. During the summer, puberty had hit me suddenly, extravagantly. He stared at my body like it had let him down. “You’re different,” was what he said, clearly disappointed, before walking away.

Both of these times I was impressionable. Frozen. Powerless. As I got older and recognized it for what it was, sexual predation, I got angry. I fantasized about my grown-up self someday confronting him, but if I’m being honest, I’m way too conflict avoidant, and now, he’s dead.

I could stay locked in anger mode, knowing there will never be a satisfying resolution, or I could finally do something.

So, I forgave him.

It took some work. I had to create enlightenment for him, a capacity for change, and truly believe in the possibility we all have, at heart, for goodness, in spite of everything, as a role model of mine from a long time ago once wrote in her diary.