He told us to open our notebooks to a blank page and to start writing. He didn’t specify what to write about, just write. I stared at him as he sat behind his desk, his chair squeaking against the linoleum floor. He whipped his chin with his hand and scanned the class for anyone rebelling against his stupid request. I looked down at my paper before his eyes could connect with mine.
I stared at my open notebook, the empty page haunting my thoughts. What the hell could I possibly gain by writing whatever was on my mind? I’d realize how much of an outcast I really was. I’d learn that everyone at school hated me because I was shy. Yeah, that’s something to gain all right.
I picked up my purple inked pen and began to doodle in the margin of my paper. He always made a little comment about my doodles with his stupid red pen on every paper I’ve handed in. This makes the page messy. I’d prefer if you’d doodle elsewhere. His comments didn’t make me stop. He and every other teacher I’ve ever had have commented on my doodles. Why would I change that? It is part of my personality that they should accept. But do they? Nope, never.
“Now class,” he said in his raspy tone. He always sounded like he should clear his throat, like there was a frog stuck on the back of his tongue wiggling to get free. I couldn’t help the slight smile that formed on my face. The image was too funny to ignore.
“Remember to free write here, no one will read it besides me. I’m not collecting this until the very end.”
None of my fellow classmates look up to meet his gaze, none but me. He was staring at some cheerleader he had assigned to the seat right in front of his desk. Lucky for her, all of the jocks formed around her. The blond bimbo didn’t even see the looks the teacher gave her. But I saw. I always see little things like that.
That is what happens when you are an observer like I am. You see the world, but do not participate in it. I was completely fine with that until I was told that it was wrong. I should be outgoing and bubbling with joy every minute of every day. I should be wearing my light brown hair in low pig tails with orange and black—our school colors—ribbons wrapped around them. I should trace my pale green eyes with thin eyeliner and powder my face with layers and layers of makeup. I should try out for sports and join clubs.
Do I do these things?
Nope, never.
I quickly glance around the room. The cheerleader was whispering to ‘boy toy of the week’ with our teacher completely clueless. A couple of girls were passing notes, probably concealing their weekend plans and how they are over come with joy of lying to their parents and sneaking out. A few of my classmates where actually writing, lost, empty sentences with no legitimate purpose.
Indeed, a stupid request.
I brought my pen to the page, my thoughts uncontrollably pouring out in mad scribbles.
Dear Mr. Teacher,
You asked us to write. Write what? What is it that you would spend your pathetic time reading? Not one of my fellow classmates will be honest and tell you what is really going on, and the ones that do are ridiculous. I don’t see the point in journaling your problems. It solves nothing. Nothing!
If it’s because you have no life outside of this school, then I could understand. But, you tell us about your condo in Costa Rica, you tell us about your dream of opening a chain of sporting goods stores in exotic lands. Any yet here you sit, teaching high school students about ‘self help’ and other useless topics.
Does this satisfy you, Mr. Teacher? Have I completed my assignment for the day? If I haven’t, then I shall continue.
Your teaching methods are strange. They do not teach me things that I would suspect should be taught in a grade eleven health class. Not once have you muttered the words ‘Just say no!’ or ‘Don’t do drugs!’
Huh, maybe I’m just missing something.
Well, Mr. Teacher, have I fulfilled your requirements for today? If not, then please accept my apologies for I have nothing further to comment.
Until tomorrow.
hehe
