A blank screen stands before me with my thoughts
heavy under tense strain, and pressure. Sitting on a wooden chair by an antique
desk, I stare at the computer with a look of great distress. For what seems
like the hundredth time I am typing yet another essay, but this time it’s a bit
personal. In basic retrospect I’ve been assigned to write how my opinion on
writing, or reading was shaped by any early memory I might recall. With that in
mind I over think it all as usual, and decided to start with a question to
ponder. “Why can’t I enjoy writing with a clear sense of mind like I do with
reading?” I said thinking out loud. Letting my mind wonder with that question,
I opened one of the cabinets in the desk below me for some inspiration. Inside
laid one of my first year books dating back to 2001, so I opened it up for
nostalgia purposes. Looking through it the pages brought a moment of inspiration
I needed, and whisked me back 14 years ago to my early second month of school
ever. I start to rapidly type on my keyboard.
It’s
almost as if it were a life time ago, but I remember it vividly. The sun shined
a shade darker during that early autumn morning of October 2001. Colorful
leaves were fluttering away with the slightly chilly breeze as I got off my
plain yellow bus on Lynnhaven Road on suburban Virginia Beach, Virginia. I was
an average sized 51/2 year old in dark blue sweat pants, and jacket with a
rather plain haircut with the bangs cut straight across (which I would find
very comical now). I was also a bit hyper but that’s beside the point. The
bricked school building of old Brookwood Elemetary laid before me like a clash
of two worlds in my younger mind. On one hand I was thinking with glee about
playing games with my classmates, but on the other hand I felt a bit
intimidated by our teacher. Let’s just call her Ms. Tisk for the sake of
foreshadowing.
As
I entered the building I passed through a tall tan hallway like I have been for
the past month since I started. It was swarming with excitement like a hive of
bees with the teachers guiding children to their intended classrooms, and there
amongst them was my first teacher Ms. Tisk. She was perhaps a little over 5
feet in height with a slightly red toned contrasting light tanned skin, a
little pouchy circumference (body), dark deep blue eyes, short dark brown hair,
an unwelcoming expression, and carried a stern southern accent. Her expressions
always seemed angry, mean, and full of hate to me as she gathered us around to
enter the tall door leading into the classroom.
The
classroom itself was setup the same as always as I entered the room
second-to-last. Bicycles hanged from the
far side of the room while the right side contained a dark green chalkboard
with the poster of the alphabet stapled above it. Standing before the board was
a high chair facing a wide royal blue mat where the children were sitting
crisscross upon as I joined them with Ms. Tisk following closely from behind as
she made her way towards the chair.
The
class was in session, and my classmates quickly “shhh’d,” one another into
silence. The attention for the most part was on the teacher as she took
attendance with her still icy glance. Then proceeded to have us play a simple
fun word game with cards, followed by pronouncing the words through sounding
them aloud to each other. I remember the words were something like ‘of, it,
get, when, can, father, mother, brother, the,’ and so on. The words themselves
were easy to repeat aloud. Aside from my slight speech problem that part was
easy at the time. Each card had a curious number in the upper right corner
ranging from 1 to 10 for each of the 10 words. It was amusing in till I heard
on the lines of, “Children! Go to your assigned desk, and have a pencil in
hand,” Ms. Tisk had ordered.
The
small desks were encompassing the blue mat as I took my seat with my back
facing the bicycles. As everyone else made it to their seats Ms. Tisk passed
around what was to be my first spelling test, or probably my first test of any
kind really. Nevertheless she explained what it was, how I had to keep my voice
at a near whisper, and that I had to finish it correctly before I could join my
classmates in the cafeteria for a midday meal. The test itself was labeled 1
through 10 like the cards, and like the cards I had to match that word I saw
with the number.
Slowly
I was making process on the words, but there was a tad bit of trouble. I kept
getting distracted by little things like the sound of Ms. Tisk’s footsteps
traversing the room, and the words didn’t come out quite right in my head, so I
tried to silently pronounce them to myself. “Oo-fah,” I softly muttered as I
put down ‘uf’ for the word ‘of’ for number two. At that point it had seemed to
Ms. Tisk that I was strictly trying to disrupt her class, or have others cheat
off me because she quickly tried to silence me. She approached my desk, and
scanned my paper with a look of distaste at my spelling then gave me a warning
saying to “use my inside voice to properly write out the words” or else I’d be
“put into the corner”. Then proceeded to highlight the ones I needed to
correct, and moved on to the other children. That didn’t help much at all considering
I was already struggling just trying to remember the words. I tried telling her
that I needed help me, but as soon as I tried making a sound she silenced me.
Eventually
I remembered what all the words were, but I kept on misspelling them. About 30
minutes have passed, and most of the children already left for lunch while I
was huddled in my chair, staring hopelessly in my chair. Part of me wanted to dash
out of there, forget the test and join them. Of course I couldn’t though
because by then Ms. Tisk was hovering right over me while I fought with the
jumble of letters, and words thrashing in my head. She just kept highlighting
what was misspelled on my test every time I thought it was complete.
Again
another 15 minutes pass, and then I heard “Gather your things, and go to the
classroom across the hall to complete your test. Then yawl join your classmates
in the cafeteria,” Ms. Tisk ordered. I gathered my things with a down casted
expression, and dragged my feet as I headed towards the other room. Ms. Tisk
made a sound of irritation followed by saying “Walk correctly, and quit
dragging your feet!” I picked up the pace as I entered the next room which was
only slightly different (without the bicycles) then my original surrounding. I
noticed there wasn’t another teacher around, but there were a few upper
classmen. Maybe in there 3rd, or 4th grades if I were to
guess.
I
took my seat across from the other students while Ms. Tisk informed them of why
I was in there. “He needs to finish his test with accuracy, so allow him to
quietly finish,” she said as she quickly left the room after. Yet again I sit
there for another 20 minutes before one of the upper classmen walked over to
me. I recall him only slightly, but he was a bit taller than me with black
curly hair, and wearing glasses. He asked lazily “What ya stuck on?” With a
defeated glance I replied with “These,” as I proceed to share what I was
spelling incorrectly. The boy looked over my paper with a curious expression,
and tried pronouncing what I was trying to spell. He quickly got the gist of my
attempts, and he hastily helped me correct it all. In that moment my face must
have expressed bewilderment because he then explained, “I had Ms. Tisk once.
She wasn’t fair with her tests, and never warned us of when she was having
them, so I needed help too.” The concept of pity was new to me, but I thanked
him whole-heartedly, and made haste to return my paper.
Suddenly
I’m back in the present of mid October 2015 in front of the now full computer
screen. In a strange twist I’m wondering, “Will the reader understand my
answer?” I decided to explain that the meaning behind it all was that Ms. Tisk
treated me unfairly that entire year, and from that single year had carried
throughout my written education in different forms. It made me less confident,
and skeptical about the words that would even follow this sentence. Ms. Tisk is
the reason why whenever I hear about a test, or any assigned written work I
feel a bit of anxiety, bewilderment, and eventually become astray by my
strangled thoughts. I just can’t enjoy the limelight of writing without the
storm cloud hovering over my mind.
Oh,
and in case you were wondering; I did pass that spelling test in the end.
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