Dear Sister Kathleen T.

or rather:
UNdear [you aren't my]Sister Kathleen T.,

I remember.  I remember you threatening to slap me because I was not in Gym class that day.  I had a valid excuse and I wasn't doing anything wrong.  Unless you count having to take a piss as "wrong."  Except perhaps that my presence in the hallway was annoying to you.

I was a quiet kid.  Too quiet, even.  I didn't mind following the rules as long as I understood what they were.  I really even didn't mind the uniform.

You came upon me in the hall and asked me why I wasn't in gym class.  I told you.  Quietly.  Why I wasn't in gym class.
You. Said. I. Think. I. Shall. Slap. You.

You put up your hand and struck at me.  At my face.  Only you missed.  Would slapping my face have made you feel better?  Was this something your god wanted you to do to me?  Explain please.

I was a child of abuse.  I had dodged much worse than you. I whirled around and said the only thing I could think of to say:
"I'm going to tell my mother on you."  [The biology "sister" would mock me for saying that later.]  I was young and idealistic.  I knew the law said that you could not hit me.  I didn't know that the law was meaningless.  Yet.

I grew up.  Did you think I would forget?

I didn't forget.
I will not forget.
I will not forget.
I will not forget.

Threatening to slap me and even ignoring the signs that I was being abused at home is hardly anything compared to what other kids have suffered and are suffering in boarding schools and therapeutic treatment centers.  But the brain-numbing education I received at your institution turned me away from your religion by time I was a sophomore.  Good job there!

Life goes on. 
You were fairly old when this thing happened.
You are probably dead now.

No love,
sapphoq on life