Wednesday, March 19, 2014

70. Ms. Smith

My eighth grade English teacher was not one for creativity, and as a result, expressed concern to my father on how "spirited" I was on paper. When she gave him my essays from my first semester, I felt as though a bag had been put over my head. I needed that way to express myself without judgement. I felt like my words were an endless supply of pennies, that I could just keep putting into a bottomless well. They were tiny hopes and while I knew my teacher corrected them, I also knew she didn't get them. I also knew my dad couldn't possibly get them either, so him having access to that part of me made me feel very exposed.

 He could feel me hovering near his office area as he read the first page of the first essay. He turned his head behind him to see me standing there in my pj's.

"How far did you get?" I asked.

"'The.'" He said. "I got as far as 'the.'"

"Oh, OK."

He motioned me over.

"Do you want me to read these?" He asked.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because they are mine and they're kind of personal."

"Well, I don't know what is considered personal to a thirteen year old. That aside, I respect your privacy and your right to your work."

He gave me the stack of papers.

"They were all above a B and that's all I care about. I'll make a deal with you, though. I'll respect your privacy if you promise me that you'll tell me if there is something wrong OK? Look eye now and promise me."

To this day, my father understands that if I'm asking him for help I must really be in trouble, given that I'm mum on details otherwise.

As for Ms. Smith, I know she wasn't a huge fan of my father after the next parent teacher conference. I think she has since retired. I only remember her when I'm not feeling particularly badass and I need to make a mental list of people I've proved wrong in order to feel better about myself.

"And fuck you, fuck you as well, and you also.."

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