A “PS” on the bottom of a student note – that’s all it took.

One post script on a sloppily written, yet intricately folded message redirected my thinking about my role as a teacher in a way that I could never have anticipated.

In November of 1997, a very quiet and sensitive student surreptitiously handed me a note on his way out of class; his directive was to “read this later.” I was intrigued, since the look on his face indicated that this note was not a matter of frivolity; his expression was uneasy, indicating the weight of the message.

After teaching two more periods, I finally had a chance to read the note that had occupied the undercurrent of my thoughts for the previous 86 minutes.

He started off by saying that he enjoyed my class and had begun to see me as a trusted adult; he hoped that I would be his teacher again during his junior or senior year. It was benign enough — sweet without being overly cloying — so I wondered about the timid nature with which he handed the note to me.

Then I saw the reason at the bottom of the page:

“PS – I’m gay.”

The supplement to the note – the paradoxical post script/declaration – was the catalyst for a paradigm shifts in my thinking and, consequently, my teaching. This reticent student, who politely sat in my classroom for three months completing his work and affably nodding, was struggling in ways I could not have imagined. The difficultly of the Puritan poetry I was teaching was nothing compared to the difficulty of living a life while being weighed down by doubt and fear.

The next morning, I went to his homeroom and called him into the hallway. He looked even more nervous than he did when he handed me the note, so I got right to what I wanted to say.

“Congratulations!” I blurted out. I then threw my arms in the air and hugged him; he began to well up. I told him that being who he was should not be a post script – “it should be a SCRIPT!” He laughed, I laughed, and then we talked. It was as if the dam had broken and he could finally express what he had been trying to hide so diligently for years. It was a release for him and a wake up call for me.

It opened my eyes to the burdensome, intangible items that my students carry to class each day; they are items that weigh more than the ones I can physically see. They carry insecurity; they carry rejection; they carry worry.

They carry secrets.

From that point on, I made sure that I started mentioning some of the intangibles that I carried as a high school student because there were many; self-doubt was the most prominent. But, I also started including anecdotes of my BGU (Big, Gay Uncle). I talked about his career in the film industry, his life in big cities, and our shared love of anything Broadway. As I talked, I could see the faintest hint of a knowing look on some students’ faces. They were usually the ones who came to me later for advice on teen life — or to come out.

Since that day in 1997, I have had the privilege of being the “coming out” teacher for numerous students in my school. Some were students I had in class, some were kids who heard about me. Some students cried. Some just rambled freely because the flood gates were open.

But as each conversation progressed, I could see an invisible weight being lifted. It’s as if each of the students had been wearing a heavy, wet, wool coat that constricted their movement and made them uncomfortable. By the time each meeting was finished, the coat was on the floor.

I still have the note; I also have 17 years-worth of wool coats all over my classroom.

And I’m ready to collect more.

Members of the Delsea Regional High School Gay-Straight Alliance

at the Equality Forum in Philadelphia, 2013