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shespeaks7-blog · 8 years ago

Text

Books, They Saved Me

The poor teacher asked me what I want to be when I grow up. The poor, uninformed teacher had no idea what she was in for. I’m no problem child, I just like to make people think. If I have to do it all day, why should anyone else get a rest? So when she asked, I simply smiled and laughed. “Whatever do you mean, Ms. Claire?” “I mean what job do you want?”

You see, these are two very different questions. One is what I want to be when I “grow up��, and one is what job I’d like to have in the future. See the difference? Well, if you don’t, I’m about to explain it to Ms. Claire, so pay attention. “I want to BE a mother, wealthy, and a wife. I want to have a JOB as a writer. And as far as growing up goes, when will that be? Don’t we spend our entire lives growing up? All this time in this world, do we ever actually reach the "fully grown” stage in our lives? With all the changing and morphing of our personalities and circumstances, I doubt anyone ever reaches “grown up”. So when you ask me what I want to be, I’ll say a happy mother and wife. When you ask what job I’d like, I’d say writer. But asking me about the stage of being grown when it just doesn’t exist, well that’s just foolish Ms. Claire.“

I might should have dialed it back a bit, as Ms. Claire was new at the time. Her second day as a teacher, and I had already sized her eyes to widen with question and her jaw to open as of to speak, but nothing would come out. Her mouth eventually snapped shut and she nodded, slowly. Then she opened it again, carefully considering her words. "Angela, I’d like for you to write what future occupation you wish to hold, onto that sheet of paper there. Then I’d like for you to illustrate that decision as the rest of the class has begun doing.

It was my turn to widen my eyes. Usually teachers become flustered by my speech and articulation at age nine, and just allow me to do as I wish. Ms. Claire was the first to respond to my "outburst”, as many teachers have called them, and have the ability to speak to me as an equal instead of dumbing down her vocabulary and slowing her speech to speak to me.

I smiled. “Ms. Claire, I would be delighted.” I began to draw myself at a writing desk with my previously published books stacked high next to me. It probably looked more like a colorful ladder next to an old house, because my artistic ability never really caught up with my skills with words.

I remember that day well, because Ms. Claire was the first to combat my obviously large ego and to put me in my place by showing that I am bright but even the brightest still need training. I loved her for it. She was my all time favorite teacher. She even requested a gifted students program to be started at our school, but we were in too much of a financial deficit as it was to constitute hiring another teacher. So Ms. Claire took it upon herself to teach me one on one, whenever she could.

Other teachers used to tell me not to answer questions, because I didn’t think like other students or my means of explaining answers were too confusing for them. Not Ms. Claire. If I had a theory about math or science and I had a question in class, she would answer it right then and there, then explain to the class what we had just discussed. What I found frustrating in having Ms. Claire as a teacher, though, was that I wasn’t allowed to finish my work early and read. I’d be finished with my work twenty minutes before the rest of my class. Ms. Claire pulled me aside once and told me that if math isn’t hard enough, she would give me harder math, and if my English paragraphs were difficult enough, she would make the work harder. She told me I had potential like a knife; I needed to be sharpened daily or I’d be quite dull. She explained that I should have my reading as a reward for my learning, and that’s how I’ve treated it ever since, as a reward.

Being bright came at a cost. My self-inflated ego may have been well contained and a lot smaller since Ms. Claire’s arrival, but the other students still did not enjoy a “show off”. Apparently, it isn’t socially acceptable to answer every question and fulfill my abilities academically. They also laughed and joked about my appearance, always sitting with my back straight and a dress every day. The jokes used to be about how I was waiting to meet the queen, but the queen would never want to meet someone like me. Instead of smart, the other students called me smarta** and said that no one likes anyone like that. This meant that most of my days were spent reading at lunch next to Ms. Claire, reading at recess as I walked the field, and reading at snack time in the afternoons. A lonely life I lead, unless I was paired with a book.

When it was time for high school, I had my first broken heart. Not over some silly boy, but over leaving Ms. Claire. I was entering a world where “C’s get degrees” was the motto and caring about academic standing wasn’t accepted well amongst the other students. I decided to make an attempt to make some friends while in high school, so that meant changing my dress-only wardrobe and adding jeans to my selection. And that meant shopping.

I remember the end of the summer before school began, standing in front of the daunting and seemingly huge mall. My mother put her arm around me and squeezed my shoulder, smiling. “I’m so glad you want new clothes! It’ll be fun, getting ready for high school, won’t it?” I smiled a bit, glad she was happy. I was too, but I didn’t exactly know what to expect when buying jeans. We entered the first store I saw with jeans in the window and I immediately became overwhelmed with anxiety. There was a plethora of brands, styling variations, cuts, fits, and sizes all over. I froze in the doorway, staring at the options and holding my breath. My mother smiled and squeezed my arm. “It’s okay, let’s try one pair on and see what you like and don’t like. Then we’ll go from there.”

I exhaled at this and smiled. I picked a pair that seemed my size, and tried them on in the dressing room. Too big, but I adored the little pattern on the pockets. My feet, however, looked positively foolish in my white version of Mary Janes. My mother asked to see the jeans, and when I walked out, she laughed. “Honey, it looks like we’ll be hunting for shoes too.”

The day crept on, and I found several pairs of jeans and settled on a pair of converse I liked. I changed into a pair of my jeans and my new shoes, feeling proud of my purchases. I did, at least until I saw a few girls I knew attended the high school I had just enrolled in. They had shiny hair and their bright makeup made their eyes pop. I smiled and waved at them, as we had met before, but they gave each other a look and burst into loud and obnoxious laughter.

Embarrassed, I told my mother I was tired and would like to go home. Looking concerned “Honey, don’t you want to pick up a book before we leave?” She knew it would cheer me up, and I followed her into the Barnes and Noble.

“Now A, (she thought calling female friends and myself by the first letter of our names was cool) you need a new backpack, don’t you? How about this?” She handed me a leather satchel, large enough for my laptop, a textbook, and a couple reading books (at least that’s how I sorted the available room in my mind) and it had a place for pens, pencils, etc. under the front flap. It was perfect. I paired my new satchel with two books and left the mall much happier than when I had arrived.

Fast forward to my junior year of high school, I had kept my nose in books since day one. I found out that the class I was in would be ranked the following spring to represent one through one hundred and fifty, who had the best grades. I decided to buckle down and read more of my text books so I wouldn’t embarrass myself and be number one hundred and fifty. I wouldn’t be last, because I often didn’t care for my grades as long as they were A’s. However, I would much rather read fiction than facts, so I didn’t have as high a GPA as I could have had. Once I realized I had a chance at valedictorian (my principal told me what that meant) I made the decision to care more about my grades. I signed up for Biology study session.

This session was made up of seniors who had taken the class and juniors who were struggling through it. When I signed up, however, Ms. Langley (Bio teacher) assumed it was as a tutor. When I read the assignment list and realized I would have access to the same extra curriculum anyway, I shrugged it off and decided to meet the person that needed tutoring. Josh Coleson.

Josh Coleson was tall brunette with sparkling blue/green eyes and a tan that could only come from work in the sun every weekend. He worked with his dad on a farm his family owns, something I learned at our first study session. It seemed that I ended up learning more in the subject of Josh than he did in Biology, but somehow he pulled an A on his midterm.

Winter Wonders, a dance before the holiday break, was a week away when Josh asked me. I played it cool and only jumped once, when I wanted to jump up and down forever on excitement. I told him yes, of course.

Shopping again, my mother was beaming this time. She loved special occasions, and buying me a party dress was special in its own right. My heart swelled at the pride I could see on her face when I chose a long-sleeved, of-the-shoulder white dress down to my knees that flavored out from the waist.

The night of the dance, I couldn’t stop looking at myself in the mirror. My brown hair was curled and with one side pinned back, I had on red lipstick and black heels, diamond earrings and bracelet and necklace, and my mother’s shortened fur coat to boot. I felt like a million bucks, and never did I feel that pretty.

At 5:30 I sat at the dinner table with my black diamond clutch, excited for the evening. At 5:45 I sat with my head in my hand, drumming the table. At 6:00 I stood by the window, looking every few seconds, as if that would make Josh appear. At 6:15 I shrugged off the coat and at 6:30, I decided that I wouldn’t cry because that would mess up the makeup my mother had so carefully applied.

Mother walked into the kitchen for the hundredth time, pretending to be looking for something. She gave up her rouse and asked if I’d like to take photos in my new dress, and not waste my gorgeousness on the empty house. I said yes, and we went to the park down the street.

After several poses and many lovely shots I’ll be grateful for forever, shadows could be seen entering the park, sparkling dresses worn and laughs shrieking across the way. Obviously intoxicated, two girls could be seen tripping over their long gowns, and two boys could be seen scooping them up. My mother gave me a look that said it was time to go. We left, but not before I saw the face of one of those boys. Josh’s blue/green eyes still sparkled in dimmed lamp light.

That night I curled into a ball for a moment and realized something was missing. I jumped out of bed and squatted in from of my book shelf. I had several new ones to pick from, but an old Nancy Drew from the sixth grade called for me. I picked it up and followed her through her journey, one that involved no boys at all, the best way to be.

After the fiasco of thinking that anything but books were good to me, I changed my direction. Grades, books, and a job. I thought a job would be good for my resume. I applied to work as a barista for my local Starbucks. After two weeks of learning how to make drinks and realize those who taunted me at school also liked iced coffee, I settled into a habit of school, work, homework, reading, sleep, and repeat. I liked this cycle and repeated it until graduation, where I gave the valedictorian speech and was the first to graduate. I had received a full ride to State school. And that brings me to here.

Through my story, through my not very grand and very lonely story, I never felt alone except when people were involved. My world consisted of books, doors to many worlds. Ms. Claire taught me that books are rewards, and that’s how I’ve treated them ever since. They’ve treated me with respect and nurturing and expansion of knowledge. It’s with my story that I prove the idea that books can save people. When I was teased in grade school, I had books to turn to. When I was tortured in high school, books were my rescue. When I was left behind, books were there. When I need something new or a numbness to the world or a refreshment on life, I turned to the world of reading. That’s just part of what makes reading so glorious and profound. Too bad so many never even open a cover.

#books #book #shortstory #tuesdaythoughts #read #reading

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shespeaks7-blog · 9 years ago

Text

Books, They Saved Me

The poor teacher asked me what I want to be when I grow up. The poor, uninformed teacher had no idea what she was in for. No, I'm no problem child, I just like to make people think. If I have to do it all day, why should anyone else get a rest? So when she asked, I simply smiled and laughed. "Whatever do you mean, Ms. Claire?" "I mean what job do you want?" You see, these are two very different questions. One is what I want to be when I "grow up", and one is what job I'd like to have in the future. See the difference? Well, if you don't, I'm about to explain it to Ms. Claire, so pay attention. "I want to BE a mother, wealthy, and a wife. I want to have a JOB as a writer. And as far as growing up goes, when will that be? Don't we spend our entire lives growing up? All this time in this world, do we ever actually reach the "fully grown" stage in our lives? With all the changing and morphing of our personalities and circumstances, I doubt anyone ever reaches "grown up". So when you ask me what I want to be, I'll say a happy mother and wife. When you ask what job I'd like, I'd say writer. But asking me about the stage of being grown when it just doesn't exist, well that's just foolish Ms. Claire." I might should have dialed it back a bit, as Ms. Claire was new at the time. Her second day as a teacher, and I had already sized her eyes to widen with question and her jaw to open as of to speak, but nothing would come out. Her mouth eventually snapped shut and she nodded, slowly. Then she opened it again, carefully considering her words. "Angela, I'd like for you to write what future occupation you wish to hold, onto that sheet of paper there. Then I'd like for you to illustrate that decision as the rest of the class has begun doing. It was my turn to widen my eyes. Usually teachers become flustered by my speech and articulation at age nine, and just allow me to do as I wish. Ms. Claire was the first to respond to my "outburst", as many teachers have called them, and have the ability to speak to me as an equal instead of dumbing down her vocabulary and slowing her speech to speak to me. I smiled. "Ms. Claire, I would be delighted." I began to draw myself at a writing desk with my previously published books stacked high next to me. It probably looked more like a colorful ladder next to an old house, because my artistic ability never really caught up with my skills with words. I remember that day well, because Ms. Claire was the first to combat my obviously large ego and to put me in my place by showing that I am bright but even the brightest still need training. I loved her for it. She was my all time favorite teacher. She even requested a gifted students program to be started at our school, but we were in too much of a financial defect as it was to constitute hiring another teacher. So Ms. Claire took it upon herself to teach me one on one, whenever she could. Other teachers used to tell me not to answer questions, because I didn't think like other students or my means of explaining answers were too confusing for them. Not Ms. Claire. If I had a theory about math or science and I had a question in class, she would answer it right then and there, then explain to the class what we had just discussed. What I found frustrating in having Ms. Claire as a teacher, though, was that I wasn't allowed to finish my work early and read. I'd be finished with my work twenty minutes before the rest of my class. So Ms. Claire pulled me aside once and told me that if math isn't hard enough, she would give me harder math, and if my English paragraphs were difficult enough, she would make the work harder. She told me I had potential like a knife: I needed to be sharpened daily or I'd be quite dull. She explained that I should have my reading as a reward for my learning, and that's how I've treated it ever since, as a reward. Being bright came at a cost. My self-inflated ego may have been well contained and a lot smaller since Ms. Claire's arrival, but the other students still did not enjoy a "show off". Apparently it isn't socially acceptable to answer every question and fulfill my abilities academically. They also laughed and joked about my appearance, always sitting with my back straight and a dress every day. The jokes used to be about how I was waiting to meet the queen, but the queen would never wanted to meet someone like me. Instead of smart, the other students called me smarta** and said that no one likes anyone like that. So most of my days were spent reading at lunch next to Ms. Claire, reading at recess as I walked the field, and reading at snack time in the afternoons. A lonely life I lead, unless I was paired with a book. When it was time for high school, I had my first broken heart. Not over some silly boy, but over leaving Ms. Claire. I was entering a world where "C's get degrees" was the motto and caring about academic standing wasn't accepted well amongst the other students. I decided to make an attempt to make some friends while in high school, so that meant changing my dress-only wardrobe and adding jeans to my selection. And that meant shopping. I remember the end of the summer before school began, standing in front of the daunting and seemingly huge mall. My mother put her arm around me and squeezed my shoulder, smiling. "I'm so glad you want new clothes! It'll be fun, getting ready for high school, won't it?" I smiled a bit, glad she was happy. I was too, but I didn't exactly know what to expect when buying jeans. We entered the first store I saw with jeans in the window and I immediately became overwhelmed with anxiety. There was a plethora of brands, sticking variations, cuts, fits, and sizes all over. I froze in the doorway, staring at the options and holding my breath. My mother smiled and squeezed my arm. "It's okay, let's try one pair on and see what you like and don't like. Then we'll go from there." I exhaled at this and smiled. I picked a pair that seemed my size, and tried them on in the dressing room. Too big, but I adored the little pattern on the pockets. My feet, however, looks positively foolish in my white version of Mary Janes. My mother asked to see the jeans, and when I walked out, she laughed. "Honey, it looks like we'll be hunting for shoes too." The day crept on, and I found several pairs of jeans and settled on a pair of converse I liked. I changed into a pair of my jeans and my new shoes, feeling proud of my purchases. I did, at least until I saw a few girls I knew attended the high school I had just enrolled in. They had shiny hair and their bright makeup made their eyes pop. I smiled and waved at them, as we had met before, but they gave each other a look and burst into loud and obnoxious laughter. Embarrassed, I told my mother I was tired and would like to go home. Looking concerned "Honey, don't you want to pick up a book before we leave?" She knew it would cheer me up, and I followed her into the Barnes and Noble. "Now A, (she thought calling female friends and myself by the first letter of our names was cool) you need a new backpack, don't you? How about this?" She handed me a leather satchel, large enough for my laptop, a textbook, and a couple reading books(at least that's how I sorted the available room in my mind) and it had a place for pens, pencils, etc under the front flap. It was perfect. I paired my new satchel with two books and left the mall much happier than when I had arrived. Fast forward to my junior year of high school, I had kept my nose in books since day one. I found out that the class I was in would be ranked the following spring to represent one through one hundred and fifty, who had the best grades. I decided to buckle down and read more of my text books so I wouldn't embarrass myself and be number one hundred and fifty. I wouldn't be last, because I often didn't care for my grades as long as they were A's. However I would much rather read fiction than facts, so I didn't have as high a GPA as I could have had. Once I realized I had a chance at valedictorian (my principal told me what that meant) I made the decision to care more about my grades. I signed up for Biology study session. This session was made up of seniors who had taken the class and juniors who were struggling through it. When I signed up, however, Ms. Langley (Bio teacher) assumed it was as a tutor. When I read the assignment and realized I would have access to the same extra curriculum anyway, I shrugged it off and decided to meet the person that needed tutoring. Josh Coleson. Josh Coleson was tall brunette with sparkling blue/green eyes and a tan that could only come from work in the sun every weekend. He worked with his dad on a farm his family owns, something I learned at our first study session. It seemed that I ended up learning more in the subject of Josh than he did of Biology, but somehow he pulled an A on his midterm. Winter Wonders, a dance before the holiday break, was a week away when Josh asked me. I played it cool and only jumped once, when I wanted to jump up and down forever on excitement. I told him yes, of course. Shopping again, my mother was beaming this time. She loved special occasions, and buying me a party dress was special in its own right. My heart swelled at the pride I could see on her face when I chose a long-sleeved, of-the-shoulder white dress down to my knees that flavored out from the waist. The night of the dance, I couldn't stop looking at myself in the mirror. My brown hair was curled and with one side pinned back, I had on red lipstick and black heels, diamond earrings and bracelet and necklace, and my mothers shortened fur coat to boot. I felt like a million bucks, and never did I feel that pretty. At 5:30 I sat at the dinner table with my black diamond clutch, excited for the evening. At 5:45 I sat with my head in my hand, drumming the table. At 6:00 I stood By the window, looking every few seconds, as if that would make Josh appear. At 6:15 I shrugged off the coat and at 6:30, I decided that I wouldn't cry because that would mess up the makeup my mother had so carefully applied. Mother walked into the kitchen for the hundredth time, pretending to be looking for something. She gave up her rouse and asked if I'd like to take photos in my new dress, and not waste my gorgeousness on the empty house. I said yes, and we went to the park down the street. After several poses and many lovely shots I'll be grateful for forever, shadows could be seen entering the park, sparkling dresses worn and laughs shrieking across the way. Obviously intoxicated, two girls could be seen tripping over their long gowns, and two boys could be seen scooping them up. My mother gave me a look that said it was time to go. We left, but not before I saw the face of one of those boys. Josh's blue/green eyes still sparkles in dimmed lamp light. That night I curled into a ball for a moment and realized something was missing. I jumped out of bed and squatted in from of my book shelf. I had several new ones to pick from, but an old Nancy Drew from the sixth grade called for me. I picked it up and followed her through her journey, one that involved no boys at all, the best way to be. After the fiasco of thinking that anything but books were good to me, I changed my direction. Grades, books, and a job. I thought a job would be good for my resume. So I applied to work as a barista for my local Starbucks. After two weeks of learning how to make drinks and realize those who taunted me at school also liked iced coffee, I settled into a habit of school, work, homework, reading, sleep, and repeat. I liked this cycle and repeated it until graduation, where I gave the valedictorian speech and was the first to graduate. I had received a full ride to State school. And that brings me to here. Through my story, through my not very grand and very lonely story, I never felt alone except when people were involved. My world consisted of books, doors to many worlds. Ms. Claire taught me that books are rewards, and that's how I've treated them ever since. They've treated me with respect and nurturing and expansion of knowledge. It's with my story that i prove the idea that books can save people. When I was teased in grade school, I had books to turn to. When I was tortured in high school, books were my rescue. When I was left behind, books were there. When I need something new or a numbness to the world or a refreshment on life, I turned to the world of reading. That's just part of what makes reading so glorious and profound. Too bad so many never even open a cover.

#books #reading #story #short story

0 notes