Writing in Middle and High School
Middle and high school were weird times for me, although I suppose that's true of most people. I was pretty painfully shy. I don't really know why. It wasn't that I didn't want to meet new people, or that I didn't like most of the people that I went to school with. I just could never seem to demonstrate to people who I was or what I was all about in a way that felt comfortable to me. I was lucky enough to have a few very good friends that were always there for me, but I had my barriers up around everyone else. I genuinely enjoyed school, and I don't look back on this time in my life with any sort of animosity. It just wasn't the right time or place for me to really be the person that I wanted to be (this would change the second I got to college). A lot of what defined me back then came through the things that I was reading and writing. I liked writing, both for school and outside of school, and books were what I turned to for a quick escape from a bad day. I often met people because they saw me reading and approached me to ask about the book or tell me that they had also read it. One of the best memories I have is when I met this girl Miranda who was reading these rediculously dorky Japanese comics called manga. She lent me one, and at first I felt like a fool carrying it around, but I eventually got really into it, and, hey, look who's a Japanese major now! The friends I met through both books and a love of writing truly changed my life.
By the time graduation rolled around I was finally starting to come out of my shell, and it was a sad day when I had to leave behind all of the fun of performing in school musicals, quiz bowl, and passing notes to friends when I was supposed to be watching a documentary on quasars. If I ever become a teacher, I hope I can emphasize to my students how quickly life passes, and how adolescence is the most frustrating, uncertain and beautiful time of your life. Appreciate it everyday, and use it to your advantage.
By the time graduation rolled around I was finally starting to come out of my shell, and it was a sad day when I had to leave behind all of the fun of performing in school musicals, quiz bowl, and passing notes to friends when I was supposed to be watching a documentary on quasars. If I ever become a teacher, I hope I can emphasize to my students how quickly life passes, and how adolescence is the most frustrating, uncertain and beautiful time of your life. Appreciate it everyday, and use it to your advantage.
A Bad Experience
I have always felt sort of inferior in in science class. I don't dislike science; in fact, when I was very young I used to go out in the yard and collect rocks, fancying myself a geologist. I kept the rocks in a box in my closet up until we moved into our new house just a few months ago. When I went to pack up the box, which I hadn't looked through in about a year, it was too heavy for me to even lift, I had collected so many pretty rocks. I had dad bring it out to the front yard, where I carefully sorted through them, placing each and every one in various places around the house where I thought they would look nice. I said goodbye to my rock collection as we pulled away from the old house for the final time, clutching to my chest the bright orange notebook in which I had started composing little stories. Goodbye to science, hello to the arts.
Still, even though I have moved on from thinking that I might have some kind of future in science, that doesn't mean that science class has to be miserable, right?
From the front of the room, Mr. B clears his throat to call us to attention. As I look up, I briefly make eye contact with him. I try to hide it, but I can feel my face twisting into a scowl.
I don't like Mr. B. There's something about the way that he addresses his class, the way he passive- aggressively comments on the flaws in in our papers, and just the constant smirk on his lips that doesn't sit right with me. I've never received praise from him for anything. My friends are sitting with me at the same table, and I survey their expressions. They don't seem to notice that I'm upset, and they look fine themselves. They are both on the middle school track team, of which Mr. B is the coach. They know how I feel about him, but they think he's cool.
Oh, crap. I'm missing what the assignment is.
"You will write a narrative from the perspective of any part of the body. Tell about your day, what your purpose is, and the struggles that you have."
My sour mood instantly sweetens. This is perfect! I've been writing stories for a while now, I'm sure that writing one from the perspective of a body part will be easy. And, just maybe, I can prove to Mr. B that I am a capable student. I may not like him much, but it would be nice to have his approval on something.
One week and a lot of time spent in the library later, I bring Mr. B a copy of my narrative, written from the perspective of the heart, a defiant smile on my face. He eyes me suspiciously as he takes it, and doesn't even bother to sit down with me as he reads through it. I see his eyes scanning quickly over over what I have written, and my face falls into a frown. No, he's going to miss all of the interesting details of the story! What is he even doing? What is he looking for?
He hands the story back to me. "Needs work," he says shortly. "Do some more research and review your facts."
As I walk back to the library table where my friends are still writing their own stories, I feel a little bit like I'm going to cry. I worked really hard on this piece, and even with my bad attitude toward Mr. B, I had hoped that he would appreciate how I had used the writing skills that I had been practicing to improve my work for his class.
I lose my motivation to work on the assignment, as well as on any of my own stories. A few days later I turn the assignment in exactly the way that it was the first time that he looked through it. What's the point of pushing myself to write for someone who doesn't even want to be an audience to my work?
Still, even though I have moved on from thinking that I might have some kind of future in science, that doesn't mean that science class has to be miserable, right?
From the front of the room, Mr. B clears his throat to call us to attention. As I look up, I briefly make eye contact with him. I try to hide it, but I can feel my face twisting into a scowl.
I don't like Mr. B. There's something about the way that he addresses his class, the way he passive- aggressively comments on the flaws in in our papers, and just the constant smirk on his lips that doesn't sit right with me. I've never received praise from him for anything. My friends are sitting with me at the same table, and I survey their expressions. They don't seem to notice that I'm upset, and they look fine themselves. They are both on the middle school track team, of which Mr. B is the coach. They know how I feel about him, but they think he's cool.
Oh, crap. I'm missing what the assignment is.
"You will write a narrative from the perspective of any part of the body. Tell about your day, what your purpose is, and the struggles that you have."
My sour mood instantly sweetens. This is perfect! I've been writing stories for a while now, I'm sure that writing one from the perspective of a body part will be easy. And, just maybe, I can prove to Mr. B that I am a capable student. I may not like him much, but it would be nice to have his approval on something.
One week and a lot of time spent in the library later, I bring Mr. B a copy of my narrative, written from the perspective of the heart, a defiant smile on my face. He eyes me suspiciously as he takes it, and doesn't even bother to sit down with me as he reads through it. I see his eyes scanning quickly over over what I have written, and my face falls into a frown. No, he's going to miss all of the interesting details of the story! What is he even doing? What is he looking for?
He hands the story back to me. "Needs work," he says shortly. "Do some more research and review your facts."
As I walk back to the library table where my friends are still writing their own stories, I feel a little bit like I'm going to cry. I worked really hard on this piece, and even with my bad attitude toward Mr. B, I had hoped that he would appreciate how I had used the writing skills that I had been practicing to improve my work for his class.
I lose my motivation to work on the assignment, as well as on any of my own stories. A few days later I turn the assignment in exactly the way that it was the first time that he looked through it. What's the point of pushing myself to write for someone who doesn't even want to be an audience to my work?
Right on Track
I received a shock when I made the transition from middle school to high school. I had always been more successful and much more interested in the arts than in math and science, and I felt that I was an obvious choice for the high school's advanced level English class. My best friend, Kat, was much more skilled in the sciences, and I was sure that she was going to be chosen for some of the more advanced science classes. We were already having issues between us, because I was really offended that she wasn't going to be taking choir in high school (she was the one who had convinced me to sign up for middle school choir!), and we were worried that we were never going to have classes together.
But that was nothing compared to the complete animosity I felt when she received an invitation to the advanced English class and I did not.
If I had had the mind then to write a letter my English teachers, it might have gone something like this:
Dear English teachers,
I won't say that you have made a mistake in choosing Kat to be in your advanced English class, but I might go as far as to say that you have made a mistake in not inviting me to the class. What makes a good English student? Is it their ability to read a complex text? To break down complicated story structures? To analyze? Maybe that's a part of it. But maybe it's their ability to really appreciate, become a part of, and interact with that text. I would argue that for someone to love literature not just because it is considered something great but because from it they take great ideas, is far superior.
I take great ideas from literature. I immerse myself in the story, I become the characters, I live the novel.
I will go beyond myself to exceed in my "regular" English class, and I will come out of this experience as a superior student.
Did you know that Kat carries around Shakespeare plays to make the teachers think that she has been reading them?
Sincerely,
Jen
Ok, that was pretty passive-aggressive. Maybe I was a sad little victim of tracking, or maybe I just wanted some recognition for how much I loved English and writing. Looking back on these thoughts now, I would tell myself to CHILL OUT! If I want success, it has always been in my nature to achieve it in my own way. I wanted to be a manager at my job, I worked hard and made sure I was promoted to that position. I wanted a scholarship to study abroad, I worked my tailfeathers off and got one. It was the same for this. I wanted some recognition that I was dedicated to the study of English and liteature...
But that was nothing compared to the complete animosity I felt when she received an invitation to the advanced English class and I did not.
If I had had the mind then to write a letter my English teachers, it might have gone something like this:
Dear English teachers,
I won't say that you have made a mistake in choosing Kat to be in your advanced English class, but I might go as far as to say that you have made a mistake in not inviting me to the class. What makes a good English student? Is it their ability to read a complex text? To break down complicated story structures? To analyze? Maybe that's a part of it. But maybe it's their ability to really appreciate, become a part of, and interact with that text. I would argue that for someone to love literature not just because it is considered something great but because from it they take great ideas, is far superior.
I take great ideas from literature. I immerse myself in the story, I become the characters, I live the novel.
I will go beyond myself to exceed in my "regular" English class, and I will come out of this experience as a superior student.
Did you know that Kat carries around Shakespeare plays to make the teachers think that she has been reading them?
Sincerely,
Jen
Ok, that was pretty passive-aggressive. Maybe I was a sad little victim of tracking, or maybe I just wanted some recognition for how much I loved English and writing. Looking back on these thoughts now, I would tell myself to CHILL OUT! If I want success, it has always been in my nature to achieve it in my own way. I wanted to be a manager at my job, I worked hard and made sure I was promoted to that position. I wanted a scholarship to study abroad, I worked my tailfeathers off and got one. It was the same for this. I wanted some recognition that I was dedicated to the study of English and liteature...
And upon my graduation, I made it happen.
The Creative Writing Catastrophe: A Missed Opportunity
Kelsey Becomes the Seasons
Outside the sun is shining bright
As Kelsey comes in from the light.
The tress that grow are fluttering tall
As Kelsey flutters down the hall.
Sun sets leaving the sky so red
As Kelsey puts herself to bed.
Upon her wake the fall will come
And Kelsey's words will be struck dumb.
As rain wets leaves on windowpane
So tears wet to her face her shame.
Now, as trees die and air turns cold,
So will Kelsey's breath breathe cold,
Into winter's bitter air,
and only those who know will care.
Life is short but all has reason,
Live day by day within the season.
Outside the sun is shining bright
As Kelsey comes in from the light.
The tress that grow are fluttering tall
As Kelsey flutters down the hall.
Sun sets leaving the sky so red
As Kelsey puts herself to bed.
Upon her wake the fall will come
And Kelsey's words will be struck dumb.
As rain wets leaves on windowpane
So tears wet to her face her shame.
Now, as trees die and air turns cold,
So will Kelsey's breath breathe cold,
Into winter's bitter air,
and only those who know will care.
Life is short but all has reason,
Live day by day within the season.
"Sam," I whisper as I lean over the aisle between our desks. He looks up at me with his big, soft, brown eyes. He's kind of beautiful.
He leans toward me. "Hm?" he intones.
"What is she talking about when she says 'rubric'?" I question.
"What do you mean?"
"She just said to make sure that we're following the rubric when we submit our work. What rubric? I haven't been working from a rubric."
Sam frowns and opens the folder that's lying on his desk. He pulls out a single sheet of paper with some words printed on one side. "This. We got it on the very first day of class."
I take the paper from him. Printed on it are instructions for the pieces that we are supposed to be writing for this creative writing course. A poem and two short stories, plus one kind of writing of our choice. I twist around and look two desks behind me at my friend Miranda. She has the same paper sitting on her desk. What?
I turn back to the front as the warm feeing I got from Sam's eyes turns to ice running through my veins. I have no memory of this rubric. I think back to the first day of class. We filled out an information card with our names, addresses and parents' phone numbers in case the teacher needed to call our parents. I had a syllabus in my binder with the class rules and a reading schedule. But no rubric outlining what I was supposed to be writing.
The reality of the situation comes to me slowly. The portfolio is due tomorrow. I am due to graduate in three days. And only two of the pieces that I have composed are usable to satisfy the assignment.
I try to contain my panic so that Sam doesn't have to see me cry.
He leans toward me. "Hm?" he intones.
"What is she talking about when she says 'rubric'?" I question.
"What do you mean?"
"She just said to make sure that we're following the rubric when we submit our work. What rubric? I haven't been working from a rubric."
Sam frowns and opens the folder that's lying on his desk. He pulls out a single sheet of paper with some words printed on one side. "This. We got it on the very first day of class."
I take the paper from him. Printed on it are instructions for the pieces that we are supposed to be writing for this creative writing course. A poem and two short stories, plus one kind of writing of our choice. I twist around and look two desks behind me at my friend Miranda. She has the same paper sitting on her desk. What?
I turn back to the front as the warm feeing I got from Sam's eyes turns to ice running through my veins. I have no memory of this rubric. I think back to the first day of class. We filled out an information card with our names, addresses and parents' phone numbers in case the teacher needed to call our parents. I had a syllabus in my binder with the class rules and a reading schedule. But no rubric outlining what I was supposed to be writing.
The reality of the situation comes to me slowly. The portfolio is due tomorrow. I am due to graduate in three days. And only two of the pieces that I have composed are usable to satisfy the assignment.
I try to contain my panic so that Sam doesn't have to see me cry.
That's a true story. The poem above is one that I wrote that night when I got home, panic stricken and just so, so ready to graduate. My teacher ended up loving it, and it got published into our class anthology, "Hot Kids with Hot Stories", pictured above with it's sweet cover art by my classmate Jeremy.
I took the school's offered creative writing class because it was just that: a class where I could explore my interest in creative writing. The class itself just turned into a missed opportunity. My teacher could have used the class as a time to conference with us about our writing, to give us the opportunity to write collaboratively with each other, and to share our ideas with our classmates. Instead, we- with the exception of myself- were given a rubric that told us what we needed to write, and then given regular reading and writing assignments over various novels with very little class time to work on our own ideas. From what I have learned about teaching students to write, this teacher and this class was doing it completely wrong. I wish that the class had been more effective so that I could have used that semester for improving my own writing skills and the increasing the depth of my writing subjects.
I look at this poem that I wrote, which was inspired by witnessing my Aunt wither away with cancer, and think that I managed to do a pretty good job with the time that I had, but I can still see so many flaws and so many aspects of the writing that are not expressive of me as the writer that I want to be. It makes me a little bit sad to think of all of this missed opportunity.
I took the school's offered creative writing class because it was just that: a class where I could explore my interest in creative writing. The class itself just turned into a missed opportunity. My teacher could have used the class as a time to conference with us about our writing, to give us the opportunity to write collaboratively with each other, and to share our ideas with our classmates. Instead, we- with the exception of myself- were given a rubric that told us what we needed to write, and then given regular reading and writing assignments over various novels with very little class time to work on our own ideas. From what I have learned about teaching students to write, this teacher and this class was doing it completely wrong. I wish that the class had been more effective so that I could have used that semester for improving my own writing skills and the increasing the depth of my writing subjects.
I look at this poem that I wrote, which was inspired by witnessing my Aunt wither away with cancer, and think that I managed to do a pretty good job with the time that I had, but I can still see so many flaws and so many aspects of the writing that are not expressive of me as the writer that I want to be. It makes me a little bit sad to think of all of this missed opportunity.