Photo by RODNAE Productions from Pexels (Francais: Photo par RODNAE Productions – Pexels)
What is Your Back Story «Today»
Originally written, May 2021.
A fourteen-year-old high school student. In a grade eight journalism class for English. Had found myself starting to have freezing episodes where when asked to write in class, I would go blank, sit at my desk, and do nothing, looking down. It looked like I was being resistant on purpose and perceived as lazy by my teacher, it seemed. It didn’t make sense to me because on my own, I was writing poetry and lots of journaling outside of school. In this class, I was freezing point blank. The teacher was regularly sarcastic with the students, often seemed indifferent whether we did the work, irritated, or even resentful to be there. It seemed to matter to me that my teachers approved, thought well of me, and my character.
I wanted to demonstrate I had writing abilities, and for the life of me, couldn’t get a handle of writing from a journalistic point of view. I had experienced some sadness as a teenager, unknown to me as to why, and writing was for my enjoyment, even for processing. Had written a psychologically heavy-like poem, not really shown to anyone. Also, I’m not sure why to this day; when I wrote in English, the words that came out, were often more advanced, complex, and descriptive for my age, than when speaking every day. English was my 2nd language.
I showed up at the beginning of class and approached the teacher while the students were taking their seats. It was a moment I felt relieved about that I could show my teacher that I wasn’t lazy, I could write, and that I had a practice outside of school even though I didn’t know why I couldn’t write with the same ease in his class of journalism. The moment of truth was coming. My teacher would finally see that I’m not lazy, I’m worth his time, I’m smart enough. I felt I had evidence, and could show I could try harder, etcetera.
I said, «I’d like to show you a poem I wrote so I can so you can see that I can write well even though I’m having trouble in your class.» The poem was called «Today». It was a description of feelings, during a period, that felt heavy, but certainly an explanation which did not get to be disclosed to him. I thought it was normal, that I was working through things and assumed things would get better. I thought it was normal for a teenager, doing my best.
My teacher paused, almost seemed like in disbelief, that I had had the nerve to approach his desk and waste his time. He looked at the paper put on his desk in front of him.
«Then, it hit. I felt a wave of unexpected humiliation.»
«Then, the sarcasm and the belittling started, in front of the whole class, out aloud, as he proceeded to say,
“Do you think I am stupid? You didn’t write this poem! Look at this! You probably don’t even know what half these words mean! Look at that word, for example. Come on, what does it mean?!” »
I didn’t have time to feel tormented. It went straight to feeling shocked, betrayed, and questioning my own reality. He had spoken this in full voice reprimanding me in front of the class. My classmates were speechless in their seats. It seemed like a blanket of silence. I don’t even know what else to call it. Except for hearing his voice. When I tried to speak to contest, he blew me off, with the same repeat. It felt like a humiliating experience at the time, and I buried it. Life goes on.
«I wasn’t one to make trouble or protest perceived authority at the time.»
Many things have happened since. Over a decade later, one day upon writing a birthday card for an employer, a poem bubbled out, called “Today”! Deciding the poem was not appropriate to send to my male boss, as it seemed too personal, full of joy though, I kept it to myself and wrote another birthday message in the card.
Over three decades later, in a completely different field, I’d gifted this poem to some Pilates clients, as a tiny scroll with a ribbon, on special occasions, like Valentine’s Day, holidays, and New Year’s. A few years later, it became a plasticized bookmarker, and continued to be given to massage-therapy, and coaching clients.
It has since been professionally translated into French at the request of a dear Francophone elderly client, and since met with appreciation, by many. For the longest time, the poem had been hanging on the inside of my office door as a bamboo scroll, graduation-like, without having revealed its story much. Strangely enough, it’s the same title as the original poem shown to my teacher, but with a completely different reality. With simple words, and simple message.
I forgave this teacher, don’t see myself as broken and learned that I allowed myself to be influenced by someone who was not equipped, nor was in a position, to assist me the way I seemed to need it at the time. I have gratitude for my life, as I like, and deeply appreciate myself. My feelings are my responsibility, even in the face of seeming unfairness. It is my belief, not all teachers are created equal.
I’m grateful and thankful to be in service, bringing hope to others, and help them see a little faster, that things are not always as they seem, «Today».
In closing, before the end of high school, my life was later graced by an inspirational, captivating, creative writing English teacher, Ms. Butler.
«She indeed facilitated and rebirthed my point of view towards my abilities in creative writing, personally, or in public.»
This is in tribute to dear Ms. Butler for influencing me with her compassionate dignity, and the wonderful teachers influencing their students compassionately, all over the world, the best they can. We, students, and teachers, are all a work in progress.