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Katharine Coomer Instructor: Malcolm Campbell English 1103 26 August 2013 Please Recognize my Genius I will never be able to remember her name. I will never be able to recall the sound of her voice, the color of her hair or what she looked like. These details are insignificant. All that truly matters is that I remember what it felt like to read, what it felt like to hold that book in my hands. I remember how crisp the square pages were and the sharp, satisfying noise that they made when I turned each page. The book was thin and square and felt big in my little hands. The new smell of the pages gently floated towards my nose when I opened the book and I immediately became transfixed by that aroma. The title and plot of the book are insignificant, as is the name of the woman who taught me to read. However, I will never forget reaching for the corner of the page to turn it before the woman could flip the page. I remember how pleasing it felt to silence the woman, who was attempting to guide my reading, so that I could read on. I may have annoyed her by racing to turn the page and by silencing her, but her guidance was annoying me- I did not need her help because I was a natural. In the second grade I was tested to see if I was intellectually gifted and upon passing the test, I was placed into the AIG program. AIG was a program for Academically, Intellectually Gifted students that would, once a week, travel from their home schools to the AIG Center. At the Center, we were able to take courses that were of interest to us and that were considered to be more challenging. I signed up for a creative writing course with this teacher who was known for

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being difficult. I was looking for a challenge. Our first assignment was to write a narrative about a snowman. As a child I had an incredible imagination, so I let my imagination take control and I simply wrote what I pictured and turned in my composition book when the story was over. A week later, my classmates and I lined up to retrieve our composition books from the teacher. As student after student opened up his or her book to read the crushing criticisms of the stories that he or she had written I became anxious. Before I knew it, it was my turn to get my book so I apprehensively reached out for it and the teacher placed it in my sweaty palms. I waited until I was in the comfort of my seat before opening the book to read her critique. After I had managed to decipher her sloppy cursive, I realized the red inked words were not dangerous, they were friendly. I was the only student in the class that had managed to earn a good review. I had to read her comments several times before the news sank in. At the time, I do not think that I had been more proud of myself. From that moment on, I only began to improve more as a writer. By the time I was in fifth grade, I had a twelfth grade reading level- which was higher than any of my other AIG friends. In my mind, I was now an advanced reader and writer. It was not until my junior year of high school that I was pushed off of my pedestal. My AP Language teacher, Mrs. Nixon, was an intimidating woman with high standards. Each essay that I wrote for her class, I did my very best to impress her. I included beautiful figurative language, impressive vocabulary and complex thoughts in every one of my essays. After she had graded the essays and redistributed them to their rightful owners, I would painfully assess the damage. Every one of my essays returned bleeding red ink. Each metaphor, simile, big word or complex thought was deemed unnecessary or weak or too wordy. Every criticism that I read was like getting punched in the stomach. My only talent was being smart and an advanced student, I did not sing or dance or play an instrument- all I was good at was impressing teachers.

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After being cut down by Mrs. Nixon, I became apathetic. She made me feel as though I could not do anything right so I stopped trying to impress her and outdoing myself on my essays. The Grapes of Wrath essay was the last one that I wrote for Mrs. Nixons class. I did not overthink it nor did I make any conscious efforts to include material that would impress her- I simply wrote my analysis of the novel. When she gave my essay back to me it was void of red scars made by her pen, instead, at the top of the page, in small blue lettering she had written well done. Whether Mrs. Nixon realized it or not, that minute gesture helped me to see just how much I had evolved as a writer. I had found that my work was better when I wasnt forcing it. The quality and my skills evolved whenever I let the words come to me- I evolved as a writer because my work had become more honest and real. The following year I was taking AP Literature with Mrs. Jenkins. I went into that class armed with my newfound knowledge and was prepared to write amazing essays and to continue evolving as a writer. Mrs. Jenkins was comparatively less intimidating than Mrs. Nixon- she was in her early sixties and was just very sweet. She was very open and personable and she often spoke to us about her life and her past. I immediately respected her for being so honest, but also because she was so intelligent and knowledgeable- she was a teaching veteran so she knew her material. And for that reason, writing essays for Mrs. Jenkins was terrifying. I was always concerned that my ideas and thoughts wouldnt seem original because she had been teaching for so long and I assumed that she had seen it all. The first essay that I completed for her was on the novel Jane Eyre. I will confess that I did not spend too terribly long writing the essay but I did include many interesting analyses of certain scenes and symbols that were in the novel. So I was very shocked to find that I had earned an eight on the essay (on the AP scale a nine is the highest score and the only difference

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between a level eight and a level nine essay is the elevated language and techniques). I had put very little effort into the essay and had earned a nearly perfect score on it. My score was proof that I had evolved as a writer since Mrs. Nixons class but it was also proof that I wasnt quite good enough yet. The grade that she gave me revealed to me that in some way my skills were lacking. Too focused on how close to perfect my paper was, I was unable to celebrate my excellent grade. Initially seeing the figure eight drawn at the top of my page was like swallowing a cocktail of emotions. I was proud and frustrated and disappointed and angry. The nine was just within my reach and it was my own fault that I had failed to grab it. I had all of the necessary tools, I just did not utilize them. The day after we our Jane Eyre essays were returned to us, I went to Mrs. Jenkins classroom for lunch. There were only a few people in the room and she was sitting at her desk grading papers. At one point she put down her red pen and looked up from her desk and addressed me. She turned sideways and said to me, I was impressed with your essay. You made a lot of interesting points and I wish that you would present some of your insight in discussions during class. My heart was racing and the sound of her saying I was impressed with your essay kept replaying in my mind. Even though I had not received a nine on the essay, I imagined that this is what it would have felt like if I had. I was excited because, upon receiving my essay back, I was afraid that I was unable to impress her but she had just revealed to me that I had. And more importantly, my essay had stood out to her. But I did not know the proper way to respond to her comment- I was too embarrassed to tell her that I was too shy to speak during class. So instead, in my excited state, I began to ramble on about some points that I had been unable to make in my paper. We discussed how Bertha Mason being locked up in a dark room by Mr. Rochester was symbolic of how men oppressed women during that time. We discussed

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all of the things that I couldnt say in my paper and that I wouldnt say in class. Throughout our discussion she was smiling and I was mirroring her. Because of our conversation and her words of encouragement I left her classroom feeling confident. I left her room knowing that she believed in me. I put considerably more effort into the next essay that I wrote for Mrs. Jenkins. It was another critical analysis of a piece of literature but I was mindful to change my approach. I took notes on the work as I read it, I highlighted and referenced important quotes, I studied to enhance my vocabulary, I studied literary techniques that authors use and I edited my thoughts before putting them on the page. I spent hours analyzing the work and researching it and then I would spend hours typing my analysis of the work. If the assignment was to write a one page analysis, I would write at least three pages. I pushed myself to earn a nine but essay after essay that I wrote was returned to me with a red eight staring at me from the top margin. It was painful. It was exhausting. I felt like I was alone, in a boat with only a single oar- I kept rowing and was fatiguing myself but I was getting nowhere, I just kept going in circles. My moment of glory finally came when I analyzed A Jury of her Peers. I spent a full day reading, researching, analyzing and writing a four page paper on a piece of literature that was only six or so pages. The assignment was to simply write a response of the work but I had become so enthusiastic about analyzing texts that I simply could not stop until I had conveyed each and every one of my thoughts and interpretations. When it finally came time for her to return the essays, she slowly made her way across the room passing the essays out. All of the people around me had received their essays and they were reading the feedback and discussing their grades. I sat there completely silent with my heart racing. When she finally began to make her way towards me it was as though everything began to happen in slow motion. Mrs. Jenkins

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smiled at me as she placed my paper face down on my desk. I could not determine if the smile was reassuring or sympathetic. I sat there, nervously, staring at my paper willing myself to turn it over. I slowly reached for it and the voices around me morphed into one single low hum of noise that faded into the distance. The room disappeared as I flipped the paper over. In the top margin was a bright red nine that was decorated with a circle and an excellent written just beneath it. After finally earning that nine I was elated. I could feel that I had broken down the barrier that I had created for myself and that I was moving forward- I was again progressing as a writer. I was proud of myself but there was hardly time to celebrate overcoming the stagnation because I now had to keep producing essays that were better than the previous one. Through my writing, Mrs. Jenkins and I developed a very personal relationship. Her teaching style and personality showed me that she was easy to approach, compassionate and understanding. I frequently visited her during lunch to talk with her about my personal life and my personal problems. We quickly became close and after graduation she gave me a sterling silver ring as a present. My boyfriend and I visit her frequently and she has become a close friend and we have developed a grandmother-granddaughter complex. But it was my writing style that allowed for us to connect. It was raw. It was honest. It was me. My writing is who I am. I credit Mrs. Jenkins for molding me into the writer that I am today. She showed me that writing should not be over thought and that it should be honest. She taught me this lesson by encouraging me to incorporate my uncensored thoughts and ideas in my work. She taught me this not only through my grades but through her comments, feedback and words of encouragement. She taught me how to become a better reader by actively reading- a skill that

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I will forever utilize. She believed in me and taught me how to believe in myself and in my work. She made me realize that I needed to stop trying so hard because I was a natural.