As I was ill and not at school today, I thought I would continue on a bit with my post from yesterday in the "How do we know when we've seen something amazing"? category. I have had many great students in my 15 years of teaching and even some gifted ones. I mentioned to the students in my class yesterday that part of why I love this job is that often they do things that amaze us. A few years ago I was at a different Richmond school when a grade 7 boy named Liam, who was new to our school, handed in the story below. It contained only a single "mistake" (as he had spelt Marilyn Monroe's name incorrectly) and the "voice" of the piece (sarcastic) really blew me away.
His desk was right next to the poster below (her name is Tracy) that I had up on the bookshelf. During a free writing assignments (probably no more than an hour), he wrote the whole story (appearing below), inspired by that very poster. It's definitely time I shared this with a wider audience as I know I couldn't produce something half as good if you gave me a month.
When I read his piece, I was "amazed" and soon after, with some assistance, we determined that Liam was a gifted writer.
Sometimes though, when you don't expect it and something "Amazing..."like this comes along, you know why it's so great to be a teacher.
TRACY: A STORY OF LOVE AND
HEARTBREAK
I was 12; she was some age under 16. I had never
smoked; she already had twenty times the chance of dying of lung cancer. I had
braces; she had gum disease. Her name was Tracy, and although she was but a
poster on the side of a bookshelf in an elementary school classroom, she was my
first love. Her leathery skin, cataracts, skin damage, throat cancer,
psoriasis, heart disease, and stomach ulcers - who could resist her? She was
addicted to cigarettes, and I to her.
I had recently changed schools, and was still
reeling from the shock. When I first entered that unfamiliar classroom, I was
alone, but she saved me, a gleaming star in my stark, cold, and unfeeling
universe. Alas, I could not muster the courage to talk to her. She was the
tobacco industry’s poster child, who was I? I had to face facts. She was, as
they say, “out of my league”. I tried to push her out of my mind, but my
efforts were in vain. My schoolwork suffered, and I became depressed. The
seasons seemed to cry with me. As I sunk further into my depression, the
weather turned from sunny summer to cold winter. My family wondered what had
happened to me, but I couldn’t tell them, they wouldn’t understand.
But, Dear Reader, this is not the end. One cool, fall
day, towards the beginning of October, I decided to talk to her for reasons
even I cannot understand. The
day’s studies seemed to speed by. I waited until everyone was gone, and
approached her. She was in her usual position, standing by the bookshelf,
smoking a cigarette. I cleared my throat.
“So, what’s up?” I asked, trying to make
conversation. No response. “Uh,
you should maybe quit smoking. Cancer, and all that.” I immediately realized I
had overstepped my bounds. “But, uh, well, whatever you want is good.” Silence.
I had blown it. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Marilyn Monroe?” She
looked at me as if examining a specimen under a microscope. I sighed. “Look,
I’m going to level with you. I love you. I have since I first saw you. Just…
please, please take me seriously, because I am.” Now it was her turn to sigh.
“Look, Liam - that is your name, right? I’m sorry, but I’m just not ready for commitment. “
“But –“ I started.
“No
buts. I think I’ve been nice enough, listening to you, and it’s really time for
you to go.”
My
eyes began to water. “Please-“
“No!”
I
wiped away the tears. “Fine.” I said, and walked away. The last thing I saw as
I left was some kid I vaguely remembered from my class walk up to her and put
his arm around her shoulder. She had lied to me when she said she wasn’t ready
for commitment, but I didn’t care. She was my first love, and she broke my
heart. She was always there, smoking that cigarette in the corner, but I never
looked at her again.
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