A Valentine's Day Lesson

As a child, I had a humiliating experience on 14 February. Now that I’m a teacher, my students celebrate the day with love

- Melanie McCabe

I’m going to tell you a story,” I tell my class of high school seniors.

All eyes look up. Nothing quiets a chatty group of teenagers faster and causes them to put down their phones more effectively than the promise of a story.

“It’s a tale about love. And heartbreak.” I pause for dramatic effect. “And humiliation.”

Their eyes widen. I add the clincher. “Mine.” Now I have them.

This is a story I’ve told every February since I started teaching in 1999. Its power lies, I think, in how it changes the way my students see me. Gone temporarily is whatever omnipotence I command as their teacher. Left behind is an 11-year-old girl whose feelings are crushed—and each of them is outraged by the brutality of the one who did the crushing.

“In sixth grade,” I begin, “I fell madly in love. His name was David. He was tall, cute, kind of a bad boy—which I found tantalizing. He had no interest in me at all, but I doodled his name all over my diary. Wrote DT loves MM in giant hearts. You get the idea.”

They get the idea. The girls are laughing—and remembering.

“So it was Valentine’s Day, elementary-school style. Construction paper mailboxes. Someone’s mom brought in cupcakes. Our parents bought us those variety-pack valentines to send to everyone in class. Dreadful things with corny sayings like ‘Bee My Honey’ and ‘I Gopher You!’ ”