An Ode to My English Teachers

Between the ABC’s and 7th grade sentence structures; English class became that hour once a day where I circled my thumbs and counted how many seconds I could hold my breath between each pause the teacher took.
And then in the heated valley of public learning, I opened my eyes and found a plethora that started with somethings called a protagonist and an antagonist.
You Mr. first year of my last year of middle school, vegan, who also happened to have a very contagious laugh; made me fall head over heels in love with English.
Yes Mr. First Year, you happened to spark something inside of me that will forever bring my notebooks and mechanical pencils wear and tear.
You handed out simple vocabulary, which I didn’t complain about but then I also happened to be the first one done because let’s face it everyone else may or may not have been sleeping.
The school year ended, and I was no longer the student who sat in the front row, and answered every question.
Yes that’s right, I started high school.
The first day of class my freshman year, I was wearing fuzzy socks despite the 70 degree September weather.
However did I complain?
You were wearing leather boots a long skirt and a cardigan, but little did I remember; you wore this almost everyday.
Mrs. known around the school as a hard ass, first year teaching freshmen ( we didn’t know that), but also gave me straight A’s, so who's to complain?
My first big high school paper, I wrote a semi fiction story about a board game.
Yes, a board game.
No, not realistic.
Yes, dramatic.
You read it and told me I was a writer, and from then on I was a writer.
You took learning seriously, you weren’t a hard ass.
People were mad that they put half the work into a paper and got half the grade.
You handed out college level vocabulary, with middle school learning strategies.
This was smart.
Only the people who put effort into the class, got your effort when grading.
I moved up a grade, loving english, and a new writer with an old soul.
A pretty blonde greeted us with warm smiles and free pencils.
We read old books, with new meanings.
I wrote more and more everyday.
However this was the year, I lost a part of my writing.
We wrote elders life stories, my grandma's personally.
And turned it in a week before she passed.
And with that A-, I left my words behind.
Mrs. too nice to be a highschool teacher, who cares too much for her students.
Taught the next five months, to which I can’t remember.
And with sadness, we moved on a grade.
Junior year, the year you were meant to teach Mrs. hard ass.
We were back, and you handed us PSAT packets on our first day.
We wrote in journals everyday, and somehow you brought my words back.
They grew slowly, but eventually they languidly augmented to be paramount once again.
But wait! I wrote a sequel to the famous semi fictitious board game paper.
Where I admitted my sexuality based on a family pictured on the box.
You mrs. hard ass congratulated me on still being a writer.
We read an infamously inappropriate book, which happened to be the only book in my existence that I hated, and read the whole thing.
But if I’m being honest I can not remember the last few months of junior year.
Depression nearly killed me.
The summer ended, like my dreams, and school started, like nothing else.
Mr. superhero nerd, old soul writer, who just wanted to teach.
Taught me that my feelings reflected my writing, without saying a word.
I was your teachers pet, but I didn’t care.
Writing made me happy, but who's to say I was happy when I was writing?
Somehow I was able to see the colors of your classroom somewhere in the middle of December my senior year.
Meaning to say, the darkness went away.
We read Dorian Gray, and I fell back in love with books.
We wrote fiction, and I fell back in love with writing.
You taught us college level English, and I fell back in love with learning.
Mr. superhero nerd, you were my favorite.
I remember learning the ABC’s, in preschool.
We sat on the blue rug, and sang the song.
And I raised my hand and asked why C was next to D.
Looking back, I was probably a writer.
I close-mindlessly forgot the next seven years worth of English.
But even then, I was still a writer.
8th grade, I was introduced.
The next, I was told.
After that, I lost it.
And then it was found.
And even then, I was still a writer.
My senior year, Superhero saved me.
And then I knew I was a writer.
And so did Mr. First Year, Mrs. Hardass, and Mrs. Too Nice too.

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