Creativity Is The Key
I stand in the kitchen and look up at the cabernet-shaded wall. In front of me hang two plates, but the one on the left has more meaning to me. The date 1994 strikes me hard. Wow, was it really that long ago that I learned to read and write? I look at the way I wrote my name on the plate, BRITT on one line and then YNA on top of it. When asked why I wrote my name like that, my teacher somewhat insinuated that I was having trouble writing my own name. However, in my four-year-old cleverness I responded “Well I wrote my name too close to the picture so it didn’t fit so I had to write it that way”. I think she was taken aback by my answer since most children at that age knew the alphabet, but still struggled with forming words.
While I was growing up, I was lucky enough to have a stay-at-home mom who read to my younger brother and me every night before we went to bed. I do not recall the first book I was ever read because we were read so many, but I do remember a distinct moment where I first learned to read. I was three years old and sat in the “time-out chair”, a tattered blue armchair residing in the den; I was in trouble for throwing a Hot Wheels car at my brother. He was almost one year old around this time. He wandered into the den where I was serving my time, and handed me a book, Goodnight Moon. He climbed up onto the chair and sat in my lap. I opened the book and began to read it to him, allowing him enough time to look at the pictures, and even asking him questions like, “What is this?” pointing to a picture of a chair in the book.
My mom would give my brother and me grammar packets to complete before dinner every night when we were younger. One would think that this pressure to complete packets that are not assigned school homework would turn me away from liking grammar and even English all together. With my brother that was the case, even to this day, but with me, I enjoyed every moment of finding a grammatical error and the satisfaction of finishing a novel.
With my love for grammar and school in general, instilled by my mother, I came to watch others in my classes to decipher their reading and writing styles as well. I have come to find that there are three main types of people when it comes to English classes: Those who actually read the book and put effort into thoughtful essays, those who skim the book and get by in the essay department by being a good bullshitter, and those who do not even open the cover of the book and somehow manage to form semi-intelligent words on the paper in the appearance of an essay. Throughout my years in elementary and high school, I was the first type of person previously described; however after being forced to read agonizing books about race and diversity issues, I turned into more of the second type of person. It frustrated me to no end how just because my school was ninety-eight percent white the teachers and administrators felt the need to expose us to other cultures, which in most cases is a good thing, but this overexposure turned many students, like myself, away from reading. The only thing that kept my interest in English class was reading other types of novels and free-read books.
My brother on the other hand, is the third type of person. He rarely opens a book, yet somehow can write a paper on it, and he still receives an A or A- for the paper. After years of being in complete awe of his skill, I proofread one of his papers. I found a plethora of errors! There is no way that his papers are A- let alone A material. I showed my findings to my mom who proceeded to make an appointment with my brother’s teacher; the teacher responded in saying, “Well he is an athlete, what does it matter if he forgets words and messes up grammar every once in a while?”
But it does matter, to my mom, and especially to me, to whom those words from his teacher hit me like the anvil hitting the coyote. To someone whose passion revolves around reading and writing, this nonchalant view of grammar, especially that view held by and English teacher, was hard to grasp. Breezing through The Secret Garden in 1st grade, easily remembering all of the capitals and states, as well as their spellings, in 2nd grade, I was a very advanced reader and writer. However, it was 6th grade that finally marked my placement in courses to challenge my advanced reading and writing skills.
One test, the ELA, would determine my career in high school in terms of the English department. I stared at the blank page on which I was to describe how paintings are like pieces of literature and a painting that inspired me in particular. Immediately, A flashback to a little 2nd grader me came into my mind. Both the 2nd and 3rd grade classes were held at the high school at this point because the new building was under construction. I remember standing at the entrance to the gymnasium and looking way above me, towering like a symbol of what to look forward to be upon entering high school, was this mural of various sports players. I strongly remember the tennis player, the look of intensity on her face as she winds up for the kill shot, with her right foot back in motion swiftly turning into a track, runners and all. This is the piece I chose to write about, because the painting had truly impacted me, and my goal was to become one of those athletes, who one day will inspire another young 2nd grader.
That was the first point I actually was able to understand the kind of impact that literature can have on a person; just as a painting can have on someone, literature evokes so many feelings, and to each his own. After writing that piece I was placed on the honors English track, along with nineteen other students who would become my family away from home. In 7th grade I stood strong and read all of the assigned books, and wrote all of the papers days in advance, but by the time 8th grade rolled around, my love for reading and writing was slowly being crushed by the confined curriculum the teachers pressured on us. Death. Disease. Black. White. Red. Yellow. Pain. Suffering. My brain immersed with these images, had soon lost sense of my literature loving 2nd grade self. I became that second type of person aforementioned, and even teetered back in forth towards the third type of person in some cases.
Luckily in 11th grade my teacher, Ms. Barney, actually shared my same opinion on the chosen previous novels, and for once, I would be in a class where the teacher did not have to formulate everything on their lesson plan towards one state test. AP Language and Composition would be my saving grace. The whole year was focused on finding our own writing style and honing it. Creative writing was Ms. Barney’s specialty. Everyday we had to enter class and write thoughts papers, which are basically what their name says they are. We could write about anything, drugs, sex, alcohol, curses, parents, school teachers- whatever; nothing would leave that room she told us. So we all opened up and became a tight knit group to hang out not only in school but on weekends as well. We cried when Colleen’s grandpa died, we fought when Natasha was suspended over ridiculous accusations, we took concern when Eric dropped so much weight for wrestling he was turning white-wall pale. Each of these events, Ms. Barney would turn them into a writing assignment to teach us to express our feelings on paper, thus forming our own writing styles. I remember writing about Eric’s situation particularly. We were asked to write pieces on hunger to be shared with the class and Ms. Barney would provide all different foods, appetizers, main courses and desserts. I wrote from the perspective of a Marine stationed in Afghanistan during Thanksgiving. Harsh, choppy, pissed-off language helped me to overtake the mindset of a Marine in that situation and my words flowed onto the page. Ms. Barney was so impressed with how far we had all come that she decided that we each submit to her what we thought the three best pieces of our writing were, and the class would vote on the one they enjoyed the most. All twenty pieces she would turn into an anthology for all of us to have forever. This is the first time my writing skills actually felt validated, by not only my teacher, but by my peers and friends.
Ms. Barney made me want to become an English teacher and express my love for reading, writing and grammar to others. I will incorporate my mom’s appreciation for grammar, use my brother’s teacher’s comments as a learning experience of what not to do, and embrace the allowance for students’ self-expression from Ms. Barney. All of these together will hopefully make me a great English teacher.
-Brittany Letteriello
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