Draft
The sound of a bell ringing, voices clamoring
out while footsteps rumble through the hallways; The events that transpire
during this time are accurately depicted as what happens when the first class
of the day gets out, and one is forced to circumvent the halls to get to the
right classroom or get to the study hall. Thankfully, I had only one class that
year and it was a rather peculiar class. It was an English class; Very basic,
but also very problematic in that I’d never taken a public class like it in my
life. The teacher was nice though, and I couldn’t complain. The room was very
compact, with white and green walls scattered about unevenly. The room, you
could say, might’ve even been some 3rd grader’s art
project, with different minute details and various pictures drawn into the wall
in low points. Thankfully, the pictures weren’t very distracting due to the
class’ own intensity, from the people around me just making idle chat while we
had to do work, all the way down to the teacher singling out certain students
at random points in time.
This was just the first day, with quite a bit
more to come as the year went on. My first essay, luckily, was a narrative
essay on whatever story or perspective I so desired. I was ecstatic with the
prospect of finally being able to write anything and everything onto the page
for someone else to see and enjoy. My dreams were cut short when the teacher
revealed the rules surrounding formal essay writing. I could feel the bitter
taste in my mouth surrounding my now constricted freedoms, but I understood and
followed through. I enjoyed writing, and the rules for it only made writing
more fun as I discovered many new things alongside my new friends. Twelve kids,
aged fourteen to sixteen all just collaborating ideas, talking during empty
portions of the class, and just over-all enjoying writing. Granted, not every
one of us enjoyed the same aspects of writing, but it was expected of us not to
be the same.
The kids around me were a cheerful bunch save
for a select few. There was one peculiar friend that always smelled like a
rotten egg soaked in a vat of oil when he came to class despite his sibling in
the class insisting that he showered twice a day and even more on his active
weekends. His sibling was a girl, sixteen but still very energetic even for a
young fourteen year old me. She cared deeply for anyone who was her friend and
always tried to give advice where it was needed. Her voice was high with a
smooth tone, but if one heard it there would be a distinct hint of gentleness
or kindness about it. She could be considered an epitome of a helpful friend,
but she had experienced her own innate change throughout the year from her
cheerful self to more serious and focused.
The last defined and true “Friend” I made in
the class was a primary reason I stayed with the class as he became my best
friend mid-way into the year. We had fights, much like friends might have, but
we always worked through them and surged into a whole variety of new ways to
develop ourselves as writers and as friends. To this day, I keep in contact
with him and exchange writings and ideas for our stories as they are told and
unfold.
Certain
homework assignments we received as a class during the beginning of the year
were “Writing Review” as we were given quizzes to take home and do, respond to,
and complete. For these quizzes, we were given a grade entirely on point values
from zero to up to two hundred. Precise, yes, though very difficult to achieve
for a young High School student. The initial few quizzes gave me quite a shock
as I was barely making one hundred and fifty out of the possible two hundred. I
sat in shock in my regular seat as I looked at the first grade; I was confident
in all of my answers, I had the book and guide there with me to help check my
answers, and yet I still made a below average and even mediocre grade on the
assignment. The event would’ve crushed me, were it not for those around me who
encouraged and supported me throughout the mind boggling ordeal.
Even then, my friends were experiencing their own
struggles and hardships with the class, which only served to prove that there
were others who would have trouble with the class. We were mostly freshmen; we
had no real basis to go off of as most of us were homeschoolers just then transitioning
into high school settings. The grades were more erratic than we could have
hoped; the teacher understood during the first half of the year the need for
this mid-way and relaxed more on the turn-in times. This would not be
reciprocated in the following year, which relied heavily on essays weekly as
well as literature journals for books we would be assigned to read. Nothing in
the beginning of the year, however, really prepared us for the proverbial hell
that we would be going through for the next couple of years.
Moving on to the second half of the year’s
assignments and what could only be described as the worst out of the year, my
grade plummeted due to a lack of foresight and a good deal of paperwork not
turned in. Had I thought ahead, or had the tools back then, I would have and
probably still would be more prepared and confident in my ability to write. In
present time, I have trouble finding the words to say or even how to place
them. I passed with a fair grade, though I still don’t wish to admit what it
was precisely. I know how to deal with deadlines, though the struggle continues
and I so very wish that I could have received more time and more of a guide in
my initial instructions in English.
All in all, I couldn’t have asked for a more rigorous
or even defined year to prepare me for the rest of life’s writings, from my in
progress book to the current day to day writings of college, there just isn’t a
place where writing has no necessity or desire to be. I find writing
everywhere, and most individuals would feel the same if they had a slight hint
of the desire to learn. Though, to be honest, there are points where I still
feel that writing is stupid and completely unreliable.
