A Little Back Story

It is wonderful to believe that all of the teachers in the world are full of altruistic intentions, ready to support and encourage young students and their inquisitive minds. Unfortunately, and I'm sure we all have the horror stories to corroborate, this isn't true.

I suppose I was what you could call a teacher's pet. It wasn't something I ever aimed for, definitely not a conscious effort. (But). I was good kid, wouldn't know how to misbehave even if I wanted to. ( maybe you should not say.. My aim was to please my teachers..since in the previous sentence you try to convince your reader that that wasn't your intention, maybe you should put something like..This unconcious behave was based on get attention for being good at something that could impress them. And in the world of the elementary classroom, I succeeded. Despite the best efforts of a 4th Grade Language Arts teacher.

For some reason, 4th grade was a particularly creative time for me. I remember sitting at home one night and being hit with inspiration. I went up to my cold little bedroom and broke out my old, black and white composition notebook, and went to town to enjoy the view and let my feelings flow. An hour later I had my first work of literary genius- a poem about the stars. I was so proud, the next day I brought it in and showed it to my homeroom teacher- a truely wonderful lady and lovely teacher, Ms. Ames. She gushed on and on, doing wonders for my shy, newly bespectacled 10-year old ego. She even asked that I write it out neatly on plain paper and mount it on construction paper (I chose red so it would stand out), so she could display it on the wall. That was it, I was hooked.

So a month or so later,(once again) I was hit with another wave of inspiration. In the process of writing my little piece of art I couldn't help to think that since the first poem was so well received, this new one would have to be that much better. I worked and reworked the piece all night long, finally falling asleep satisfied with my new masterpiece, "The Pattern it Wove" (a lovely ode to a spider's web).

When I showed it to Ms. Ames, she gushed accordingly, and suggested that I show it to my Language Arts teacher (what my school deemed the writing side of a traditional English class, with Reading being a seperate class). As Mrs. Merwin was reading it, no kind eyes or pleasant face were shown in her face. Actually the total opposite of Ms. Ames. . She wasn't exactly the Wicked Witch or anything, but she certainly had a favorite student, and it certainly wasn't me. So I did my precocious, 10-year old thing and shyly presented the scary teacher with my piece. She read it, maybe commented something vague, and then dismissed it and me. No harsh words, but a far cry from the gushing I had come to expect.

My crushed ego and I moved on, sad but not defeated. A few months later, Mrs. Merwin called me out into the hall during class. I was petrified, wondering what possible crime I could have unknowingly committed to earn such public embaressment.

"Do you know about the Scholastic Literary Awards?" she asked me. I nodded, still too scared to speak, but having been a nominee of the annual writing award the year before.

"I would like to submit your poem you gave me, but I need to know if you really wrote it." she gave me one of those stern teacher looks.

"I did."

"You didn't copy it out of a book?"

"No. I wrote it myself."

"So if I go into the library, I won't find a book with a poem in it called 'The Pattern it Wove'?" Geez, I said I wrote it.

"No, really. I wrote it myself." This is when the tears came. I never had a teacher not believe me before. Plus she scary.

"Okay, you can go back to class now." Great, all teared up and sniffly. That won't arouse anyone's suspiscions. But at least she believed me; tears will do that.

After school, I went home and recounted the awful ordeal to my mother, who soothed my shot nerves with fast food french fries. Much better. That night, my mind erased by nighttime TV, I thought nothing when the phone rang and my mother left the room. I could hear her talking, but couldn't make out the words. Not that I was really trying, again distracted by nighttime TV. When she came back she was inccensed.

"How dare that woman call here and accuse my daughter of plagerism!" What?? Apparently the tears and my impeccible record of goody-two-shoesisms weren't enough for her. She called my parents! She still thought I was lying!.

"That bitch." Honsetly, don't know if I thought it or my mom said it (or possibly both), but it was the prevailing feeling in the room.

"What did you tell her?" I asked, crying once again.

"That I absolutely thought you wrote that poem. Anyone whose paying any attention knows that sounds like you, and that you're more than smart enough to write something like that, and as your teacher, she should know that." Yeah! So there.