Dear Ms. Bell,
Dear Ms. Bell, I’m not sure if that’s the correct way to address you. I didn’t know then, and I still don’t know now. What I do know is that I was only in the second grade when you added to a level of trauma I didn’t yet have the language to explain. My grandmother was a different kind of woman. She believed in presentation. She believed in care. She believed in showing up in the world in a way that reflected dignity. She dressed well. She smelled good, always. Even in death, when I washed her body for the last time, I made sure she carried a scent I knew she would love. That’s how deeply I associated fragrance with love. With care. With pride. And then there was you. You changed the way I felt about something as simple as smelling good. You didn’t just embarrass me, you disrupted how I viewed myself and the intentions of someone who loved me deeply. Because of my home life, I didn’t tell anyone. Partly because I didn’t fully understand what had happened. Partly because silence was som...