Ms. Eighth Grade English (AKA This Essay Needs a Title)
The public school system failed me in eighth grade. It wasn’t any one person’s fault, really. It wasn’t the fault of the teacher for shutting the door on a student. It wasn’t the fault of the student for listening to his ego. The fault was in the structure of the system itself.
To put you in my place at age 14, I’d like to paint a little picture in your head. An adolescent (me) who’s older siblings no longer lived at home and whose parents were separated. At the time of this story, I believe my mom had the house and my dad lived with my Uncle. This would later change and my dad would have the house. I’m fuzzy on some details because this happened so long ago-but those details aren’t as important as is the fact that I was mostly alone, in my own world.
I built a clubhouse of sorts in my bedroom closet. It had a TV, stacks of books on shelves and a portable CD player. Stephen King was my first entry into reading adult fiction with ‘Carrie’ and ‘The Shining’. As far as adult poetry though, all I had was a CD titled ‘An American Prayer’. The album featured spoken word poetry by Jim Morrison of the 1960’s band ‘The Doors’ and was accompanied by music from the band. It was done as a tribute, after the singer’s death.
I didn’t understand a word of what Jim Morrison was saying, but the combination of words and music reverberated in my head. The words had a rhythm. They had a beat. It was just short statements without rhyme. This is how I chose to write, when I would sit in my closet with a red spiral bound notebook.
I wrote:
Time.
it passes slowly when you wait.
you wait
you wait
you wait
how long has it been with silence?
The style of writing I discovered was free writing and it didn’t rhyme.
In elementary and middle school you are taught the same type of poetry, over and over. Most of the time it rhymes, but you’re almost never taught about the poems that don’t rhyme.
I don’t remember the examples my teacher gave us the week we studied poetry. Whatever they were, they didn’t stick in my memory the way Emily Dickensen would later in life (I’m nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too?). I remember the project. It was to create a poetry portfolio which would include a motion poem, a shape poem, a five senses poem and a haiku.
I approached the teacher after class on the day she assigned the project. I got out of my chair, just like the rest of the class, but instead of walking to the door, I walked over to Ms. Eighth Grade English, unzipped my backpack and took out my red spiral bound notebook (my personal notebook) to show her and I said, “would it be okay for me to use some of my own poems. I do very serious poetry. My poetry is very personal.”
She looked at my ‘time’ poem and said, “Oh, I can see that you do…” in the type of voice you would use when you are an adult talking down to a child. She continued, “well, this could be a poem about something that moves, like time moves, metaphorically…”
It sounded in that moment like the teacher was going to give my poetry consideration. Unfortunately a week later when I got the project back, I opened up the first page and in the red pencil of Ms. Eighth Grade English were the words: This isn’t a movement poem. My shape poem also wasn’t a shape poem. I tried to mold one of my poems into a shape and print and paste it over a drawing. Her comment: ‘this is an illustration not a shape poem’.
This was not very encouraging for someone who was using the written word as a voice to express their inner thoughts and emotions. I was angry because my voice wasn’t heard. My inner voice was yelling at Ms. Eighth Grade English to read the poems! Not to just look at the framework of the project and say: “You didn’t follow the directions”.
I was fortunate to have a better experience in high school at PVPA (Pioneer Valley Performing Arts), but because of this early interaction there was still a wall separating me, as a student, from my teachers, even the ones who were genuinely trying to educate me.
When I would get assignments in high school with specific instructions, my inner brat came out, screaming and stomping his feet. I would hear Ms. Eighth Grade English (who sounded a lot like a particular teacher in the Harry Potter series named Professor Umbridge): “you must have an introductory paragraph, three body paragraphs and a conclusion. Make sure your essay has a title and is in MLA format.”
I am in community college now as a 37 year old. Looking back at this memory, I’m ready to let go of the inner brat and do the homework-but there is a part of me that will always struggle with the rigid format of regular assignments, because I would rather be judged on the content of my words and not on whether I used an outline or prewrite sheet.
When I have these thoughts, I take a step back and remember that we are all adults and that my teacher is just doing her job. I’ve learned that and will continue to do the work I am assigned, as much as I would rather not do certain things.
One last thing I’d like to say in regards to why the system failed both me and my teacher is that the teacher was not equipped to deal with an exceptional, possibly gifted student. This was because she was taught to follow a curriculum and lesson plan-as her bible. There was nothing in the rulebooks to help her help me to be a better student.
