English, Part 1

One thing I realized early on in school was that English or Langauge Arts wasn’t always my favorite subject. I’m a natural talker, so some years were spent with teachers who indulged in my curiosities and made the class fun. Some were so married to curriculum and assigned readings that it seemed like we learned anything past the pages of the “classic” books we read. For a long time, I had a horrible taste in my mouth about English classes. Honestly, I still do. However, I’ve grown to kind of understand why they are essential.

As a proud black person, one of my favorite things about myself is my ability to read and write. I don’t have to explain why that should be important to me because slavery. So since I was little and understood how to read and write, I spared no opportunity to write elaborate stories about spies on my mom’s desktop computer. I would write stories that were at least 20 pages long, with fonts larger than 36, and always in a color other than black (sky blue preferably). However, when it came to writing in class, I had to follow the rules. You know, the guidelines of speech set before us to somehow perpetuate the classist system of knowledge, education, and rhetoric. My writing wasn’t fun anymore, it was for a grade.

I hated book reports, because most of the time, I wasn’t reading the book assigned to me. So when my papers sometimes consisted of bullshit, I would get easily offended when my grades reflected the lack of effort I put into them. We also had this awful program called “Accelerated Reader”, where we took tests on the books that we read for imaginary points that were then seen on a hierarchal scale. As a student at Lake Forest Hills (I know white) Elementary School, I was subject to students of various backgrounds. Accelerated Reader became this competition to see who could finish the most books the fastest, and who could complete the most tests. I’m cackling right now thinking that I ever stood a chance while competing with kids in the Gifted Program. What’s a Gifted Program you ask? It’s where kids who scored high on a standardized test got special treatment and taken to a special class one day out of the week. Those kids also generally did better in all facets of school.

By third grade, I hated school. Like didn’t want to be there at all. On top of that, I had a teacher who I couldn’t stand, and I was convinced she couldn’t stand me. It was also in 3rd grade, where I started reading books that were “below” my “reading level”. The library was strategically sorted by books from all reading levels, First through Fifth Grade. I could easily get through a chapter book, but they were so boring. Also, my parents were too holy to allow me to read Harry Potter like everyone else, so I stuck with something more appropriate, like the Berenstein Bears (I know). The Berenstein Bears had picture books, but they also had chapter books which I found to be much more entertaining than the thick ass books all my peers were reading. The librarian at our school was cordial with my mom, so of course, when she saw that I was checking out books below my 4th-grade reading level, she promptly told me to find more books on my level, or she’d call my mom. I conceded and tried my hardest to find something that would interest me.

Unfortunately, a lot of time past and I don’t remember reading anything from 4th grade. I just remember checking out the books, keeping them in my bookbag until it was time to return them, and failing the AR test that accompanied. I felt like a flop. Not to mention, the books we read in class became more and more boring. It was as if the teachers in our school knew just how to make me fall asleep at the sight of a book. It was awful. On the contrary, I loved reading in class. Popcorn reading was our way of getting through the assigned reading materials as a class. This method wasn’t good for my comprehension but great for my public speaking skills. I was able to show off my natural proclivity for words, but often got lost in the shuffle of lines and made fun of myself for skipping ahead, and being so eager to be called on, but was usually daydreaming about what I was gonna eat when I got home.

It wasn’t until fifth grade when I realized that books weren’t out to get me. Ms. Thompkins, my beloved English and Social Studies teacher from 5th grade, and one of the greatest people of all time was a Godsend. Her sister and my mom graduated high school together, so she knew me from growing up in Augusta and at LFH. She would become one of my favorite people, because she saw me clearly, even then. Ms. Thompkins made us read Frindle a book about a kid who discovers a new word for “pen”. She also let us popcorn read Frindle and other books in class. Up until this point, we had only popcorn read our textbooks, which was boring. Ms. Thompkins has a voice that commands a room, especially full of 10-year-olds. She never yelled, but you always knew to take her seriously. I never had to question whether or not I was going to be good in class that day, I just was. The name escapes me, but it wasn’t until we read a journal about a girl from a Navajo tribe in Social Studies that I understood what it meant to write. The way this author conveyed the struggles of a girl who could’ve been sitting in the classroom right beside me was riveting. I couldn’t explain it then, but I knew that there was a space for this writing, even in the rigid confines of American education.

Middle school took all that love for reading I had gained and tossed it out of a window. Literally. My school, Davidson Fine Arts, was already this machine cranking out these perfect students with perfect grades, and perfect transcripts, and perfect talents. Let’s just say, I didn’t fit. Well, I fit because I was naturally gregarious and funny, so people gravitated towards me, but I didn’t fit because I was on a personal mission to not do any school work. I would get home, have three hours worth of homework, do 30 minutes of it, and then quickly fall asleep, or into a rabbit hole of television and video games. Davidson is where I made my first C, and I would have several. My least favorite class, throughout my time at Davidson, was Langauge Arts. Davidson was committed to making us read shit that was so boring I could barely stay awake reading it. We read Crispin, which I won’t even go into because I opened that book all of zero times, failed all the book reports and tests, and just said F IT. And that was just 6th Grade. It was also during this time when I started to frequent Barnes and Noble and buy as many books as I could afford, even if I had no intention of reading them. Still, I was determined to prove to myself that I wasn’t defeated by hating all of the assigned reading my teachers gave me. Some of the books I read, most just collected dust.

7th Grade came with a new set of problems, a teacher who only allowed us to write in pen AND write in cursive… make it make sense people. My cursive wasn’t bad, but my manuscript was beautiful, and I constantly made mistakes to where I would have to start in pencil and write over everything in pen, only causing more strife when I couldn’t finish the assignments in the allotted time and had to turn in what I had, only for the pencil portions to not be graded because, you guessed it, only the pen count. On top of that, we had vocabulary books by Sadlier-Oxford, and I swear that those tests were sent from Hell. Once my parents had divorced, my dad stopped taking on the role of my late-night study buddy. So with that being gone, I was left to my own devices as far as learning words, and I was never motivated enough to learn them. I’d eventually grow to love the vocab though because all the other assignments were either miss or miss, no in-between.

8th Grade was a little better. My teacher was a former model and was mesmerizing to look at. However, her classroom was cold and quiet. She ain’t play no games with us. I remember one time, I was trying to cheat on a test, and somehow my cell phone had slipped out of my pocket, right into plain sight. I quickly tried to put it away so she wouldn’t see, and before I could blink, her hand was out to take it from me. I also remember when we were doing an in-class assignment, and the room was pin-drop silent. She didn’t allow you to use the bathroom during tests or assignments, and I let out a slightly audible fart, and the entire class snickered with ridicule. So embarrassing. She, however, would echo sentiments of teachers before me. Saying that my writing was too personal, too many ‘I’s’, and not even research. Ah yes, research. It was in 8th grade where we began researching and had a research paper due at the end of the school year… I’m pretty sure I made a high C, and that was only after my mom asking for additional help and me having to revise the paper 1000 times.

I started to give up on it all. Forget being a writer, I didn’t even think I could be a high school student. 9th Grade was where my time at Davidson came to an end, but it wasn’t until one final semester as a high school student would send me over the edge. On top of everything else, my English teacher and I wouldn’t be the best of friends. Initially, I was ecstatic to take his class, because he had developed some strong relationships with students, and was beloved by a lot of people. So I just knew I’d be a class favorite. GIRL, was I wrong. It was as if everything I did was wrong. I don’t know if this was just my bias against ELA teachers that had festered into me hating everyone, or if I was being targeted. For the sake of this being my blog, I was targeted. We’d go for blows, and I got kicked out of class a few times. I was honestly a rebel, and all we did was read Shakespeare (his dramatic ass), and I had no interest in reading about white teenagers who committed suicide for each other. Hard pass.

After leaving Davidson, I was brought to my zoned school, Westside High. I was also greeted by teachers who didn’t treat me as if I was illiterate because I wasn’t. However, that still didn’t exempt me from problems with these teachers. The remainder of 9th grade for me was ok, and my ELA teacher, Mrs. Burch, was in her final semester before retirement. Mrs. Burch reminded me of Ms. Thompkins because she commanded the room at a smooth 5 foot. She also had no problem calling you out on your bull. She also loved me because I was eager to learn, instead of twiddling my thumbs in class waiting for the bell to ring. Westside moved a slower pace than Davidson, so I had to read Romeo and Juliet again (Jesus). This time, however, Mrs. Burch made sure we watched the movies with and without Leo DiCaprio and did a book report on the comparisons and contrasts between all three. THAT had me hooked. The Leo DiCaprio version is an awful movie, in my opinion. I couldn’t believe I preferred the older version. Alas, I was able to make good grades in her class and go into 10th grade hopeful that I was on the up and up with Language Arts.

Side note: I’m only going through my English classes because I am an aspiring writer. However, if you’d like the saga of all the other subjects I hated, you’ll have to wait for my book.

10th Grade Lit was so amazing that I’m skipping over it. Like I had no issues or anything all year, and my teacher Ms. Newhall-Nelson, or NewNel (after she got remarried), was and is one of my favorite people, TO THIS DAY. So there isn’t anything embarrassing or funny about my time with her, all love.

11th Grade, welp. The only thing I remember about 11th Grade Lit was that it was American Literature. I also remember that I hated everything. Literally. Everything. Except for Mrs. Rensch, who was a great teacher, and raved about how she and my mom taught together when she was pregnant with me, and she saw me from conception to birth, even attended my baby shower (Aww). HOWEVER, American Lit meant Mark Twain, Walt Whitman, and all those other white men who I have no idea why we consider them to be so great, even though we know why (side-eye). We also had a culminating project in Mrs. Rensch’s class, a research paper that I’m pretty sure had to be eleven pages long. I wrote out the word eleven for dramatic effect. ELEVEN? EEEELLLEEEVEENNNNN????? WHO THE HELL WAS GONNA WRITE ELEVEN PAGES OF ANYTHING, let alone about Native Son by Richard Wright? (No shade to the great Richard Wright, but all I wanted was to get the hell out of school, so I wasn’t concerned with interpreting anything, especially not that book.) The night before the research paper was due, all of my friends were calling and texting stressing about this paper. And everyone had Mrs. Rensch for Lit, so all of the 11th graders were stressing. We had also been told about this project since 9th grade, Mrs. Rensch was famous for this agonizing assignment.

The day finally came, and to turn in your research paper, you had to get to Mrs. Rensch’s class on time. No tardies allowed. By this point, I drove to school, so I was properly in place well before the bell rang. Everyone was in place, except Fatima. Fatima was a quiet girl who wore thick glasses and didn’t talk in class. But, she was Top 10. Fatima was smart, and we were certain that she’d be in the class that day like everyone else. Until she wasn’t. I distinctly remember the minute bell ringing and everyone being in their seats, including Frank Booker, the star basketball player who was also Top 10 because we all contributed to his GPA. Frantically, we all questioned where Fatima was and asked her friends in class if they knew where she was. I was distraught, I wasn’t really friends with Fatima, but I knew she cared about her grades, and a zero on this paper would ultimately ruin her GPA. The class period came and went, no Fatima. I distinctly remember calling her with my phone from the class to no answer. Damn. I think Fatima had some extreme circumstance as to why she didn’t make it, but in actuality, I think she overslept. Fatima would still go on to be Top 10 in our class, and I got a D on my paper.

I have so many stories like this. They mainly stem from my English classes, because I knew I had so many capabilities to write, I just wasn’t writing about anything I found interesting. I also found reading despicable, and heavily relied on my good friend Spark and Cliff Notes. Sprinkle a little plagiarism in there and voile, my entire career of English class up until that point. Senior year, I was just trying to get the hell out of dodge. I was overcommitted to yearbook and student council, so I couldn’t give a good damn about Mrs. Smith’s AP Lit Class, and she knew it. Ms. Smith was my homeroom teacher for two of my years at WHS, and she always liked me because I spoke well and sometimes had a book in my hand that I was probably cramming to read for another class. So when I entered AP Lit, I just knew I had an Easy A. SIKE. Ms. Smith would make sure I took just as much time to do my work inside the class as I did outside the class. I was the only boy in a class full of my gal pals, and we all had a similar disdain for Ms. Smith’s class. Mainly because it was right before lunch, also because we couldn’t be bothered with her soft voice and hard assignments. Looking back, I doubt the assignments were that hard, but seeing as Ms. Smith was easy to talk over, we used her class to let out senioritis take shape. Sorry, Ms. Smith.

Luckily though, our hatred of AP Lit didn’t stop us from passing the class and receiving our diplomas. All those years of failing grades on papers, to finally have my piece of paper. I was relieved, until the thought flashed across my mind, “I have to do this all over again in college… FUCK.”

To be continued…