Throughout my schooling, I was a favorite student of every English teacher. Charlotte Miss, my fourth-grade teacher, would warmly greet me years after leaving her class. In sixth grade, Banu Miss passionately praised my literature test answers to the entire class. Even Aliza Miss, who taught me for only a few months, declared my essay “brilliant” to the class. During my final years, I found a parental figure in Shalini Miss. After class, I would approach her with vague questions about upcoming tests and essays. I wrote numerous essays—descriptive essays about my favorite place, argumentative essays about mobile phone bans in schools, narrative essays about my most embarrassing moments. “One day, I look forward to seeing your writing published,” she would always tell me.
Beyond academics, I often confided in Shalini Miss about my struggles with my best friend, whom I was unknowingly in love with. “She wouldn’t talk to me today,” I’d grumble, or, “I hate those people she hangs out with.” On particularly gloomy days, Shalini Miss instinctively knew it was something to do with this best friend. Sometimes, she’d find me alone in a classroom, tears streaming down my face, and comfort me like a parent. Occasionally, she’d even spend her long break with me.
For years, I thought this experience of finding refuge in my English teacher was unique to me. Then, I stumbled upon memes circulating online. One tweet from 2020 read, “If you were your English teacher’s favourite student, you’re gay now.” Another declared, “Being gay is a choice, your English teacher chooses to make you their favourite and you descend into homosexuality.” The now-inactive Twitter account @qket_archive documented numerous anecdotes and memes about queer youth’s formative experiences with their English teachers. Even pop star Troye Sivan shared one of these memes on his Instagram story, adding a “thanks Mrs Fisher.” He also mentioned his teacher in a 2023 interview: “I had an inspiring English teacher, Mrs Fisher, at Carmel School in Perth. She saw something in me I didn’t see in myself. She was a fabulous, friendly person who encouraged individuality in her students and in me.”
Many of my queer friends have similar formative experiences. At university, one of my friends was so close to her English teacher that they constantly shared Tumblr posts, watched shows recommended by each other, and read each other’s favorite books. When the teacher decided to quit, my friend was the first person she confided in. Another friend, Shivani, remembers, “I had this teacher in fourth grade who taught us English grammar and creative writing, and I loved her. She used to give out scented stickers to students who made an effort and wrote good essays. She only taught us for a year, but on her last day, she got everyone popcorn and candy and gave us her email, so we and I stayed in touch over the years.”
For many queer children struggling with their sexuality, the English teacher becomes an alternate parental figure they can rely on. Often, when they realize they are queer, they also realize their parents may not accept them for who they are. These complicated family dynamics push them to seek other trustworthy adults. My university friend, for instance, was only out as a lesbian to a few people, one of whom was her English teacher. It was a Miss Honey-Matilda type relationship.
Pop culture is replete with such examples. In “Dead Poets Society” (1989), Neil Perry’s struggle with his parents is often interpreted as a metaphor for the queer experience, and he finds acceptance in his English teacher, Keating, played by Robin Williams. In the lesser-known “Paathshaala” (2010), Shahid Kapoor’s Rahul Prakash Udyavar, who quickly becomes a favorite among his students, also teaches English.
But why is it always the English teacher? What makes queer kids, sometimes still unaware of their sexuality, gravitate towards that subject? To understand this, I sought answers from my own English professor and queer rights activist, Gourab Ghosh. “In school, through poetry, short stories, and novels, our English teacher would open up many fictional worlds for us. We would feel like we are different, so we probably belong to one of these different worlds,” he explains. “That is a safe, imaginary space created for many of us by our English teachers. It’s why I opened up to my own English teachers in my school and college days. They nurtured my passion and identity and made me feel less lonely. Even now, they support me.”
I realize that English was one of the few school subjects where we could talk about emotions and personal matters. While science, math, history, and geography relied on facts and figures, in English classes, we could explore diverse perspectives and stories from around the world. We could open up. In a trend that still defines my life, all of my essays were intensely personal, often tragic, often about my best friend. My queer friends admit to similar “trauma dumping in their essays.” English classes were like therapy as we navigated our identities.
For many queer children, school can be an isolating and confusing time of coming to terms with their gender and sexuality. It was for me. Yet, Shalini Miss was my very own Mrs Fisher. She saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself. She believed in me, and for a lonely, queer teen, that meant more than she could imagine.
