Standing next to the table, at the eye-level of the writing tablet, I watched with fascination,
my mother writing a letter. What wonderful squiggles and loops rapidly flowed from her
fountain pen. There were dashes and dots and straight lines and curves. Very soon the whole
page would be full of these!
In imitation, I wrote letters of the alphabet in the dirt with a sharp stick. Pictures of houses
and boats, maps and arrows soon filled the fields.
With great wonder and anticipation, I entered the halls of the unknown- first grade at last!
Within three days, I marveled at my own innocence. Why had no one warned me?
I made an extreme effort that year to have my 'best' handwriting displayed on the wall.
With the optomism of a child, I awaited anxiously each week, the teacher's decision that would place before the world, 'my' writing. It never made the display.
Later, I became obsessed by the look of a dull pencil across a clear page. I refused to sharpen
my pencil until the teacher could tolerate no more.
As a teenager, I developed a sophisticated system of avoiding the rigors required for proper
punctuation. I wrote perhaps the longest sentences in history and dotted them with numerous 'ands' and
'buts'. The comma was also my favourite. Mrs. Freeman, the teacher, would always correct all
of the errors, which represented to me, the easiest way to avoid these frustrations.
First year in high school, the matriculation route! A real test of a student's I.Q. Completely demoralized,
I discovered that my literature teacher found my writing style distasteful (and me too, I was convinced). Along with the low grades and nasty comments, I developed a dread and hatred for writing. I came to
the obvious conclusion, that I simply could not write.
The next year, while dreading the return of our first composition papers, I was called to the front of the
classroom by the stern voice of the teacher. Convinced that I was to be sacrificed as the living example
of 'illiteracy of our times', I bravely faced the class.
To my astonishment, I heard praise being bestowed on my writing skills and mature concepts! I can't remember that teacher's name, but he restored my soul. In that one moment, he cancelled all of my disbelief and I was filled with a desire to achieve this greatness again. Faith restored, I again had the confidence to forge into the mature world of writing!
( With this blog, I can finally put my writing "up on the wall"! This a piece of writing I did, while teaching in Trinidad. It was done for a teacher's writing workshop.)
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| a drawing done of the teachers, by a student |
