There are certain questions that hook onto the loose latches of my brain and send me to galaxies far away.
My favorite latching question is one that I don't get to ask frequently due to the lack of writers that I have within reach of contact.
"What was it that influenced you to start writing?"
When I asked a few friends on Facebook what is was that influenced them, I received some interesting answers. Emotional relief, changing the world through words, and even a certain song encouraging someone to make a change.
It's a question that I never got around to asking myself and now, years later, I realize that a lot of the terrible and lonely things in life created something so beautiful.
I'll rewind back to the horrible nightmare that was third grade
In third grade I had a TERRIBLE teacher. When I say terrible, I mean the sort of terrible that places a child behind moving bins in the back of the class because she can't comprehend math and is too afraid to ask for help. I've had my desk tipped in front of the class, my seat moved into the hall, and holiday parties taken away from me because of an inability to stand in front of the class and recite the multiplication table.
I'm gunna have to say, the similarity of this cartoon character and my teacher is remarkable.
In third grade there is nowhere to run from a teacher in a school filled with people who know you, your entire family, and where you sleep at night.
Everyone knew me as the girl who just couldn't learn. When the other kids would talk to me they would speak much slower as if I was the scared foreign kid in class.
Of course, they were wrong. I might not have known my numbers but I damn well knew my words. I was brought up by older parents and a brother who would rather hang out with boys. The only person I had to talk to was myself. It's amazing because I agree with everything I have to say! A beautiful friendship!!
My mom had to DRAG me out of bed in the morning to get me ready to go to class.
The only joy I had throughout the day was when I would get to scribble in my note book or sit by my only friend at lunch (love you Lea♥).
Well, every year in December my high school has an event called "Santa's Workshop.", and during this day different classes would get called into the Health room and look through the isles of cheaply made toys and gadgets that the PTA moms would nudge you to buy.
I never went to these because I was terrified of asking my mom and dad for money. All of the cool kids got twenty dollars to splurge on plastic trinkets and I wanted to have that joy of bringing the toys back to class and have everyone wonder what I got!
Money is a silent topic in my family. If it's given to you, take it and appreciate what you have. If you ask for it, you won't get it.
I asked and for the first time received! It was amazing. Ten dollars. I nearly cried.
What a terrible kid I was going and buying candy, a tablet, and a nice pen. It was all for myself and when I brought it back the kids weren't interested in what I had anyways. I can't exactly remember but I don't think I cared.
While they sat and played with their plastic poppers and toy cars I sat at my desk and began writing. I have no idea what it was that I wrote and why I wanted to write it down so badly but I did. I wrote and it felt so good. Often times I would look out the window and imagine a handsome silhouette boy grabbing my hand and showing me how to dance on the wires of the telephone poles. I've written so many stories about this boy that I wouldn't be surprised if that's what I was furiously writing about.
It was only after the teacher had taken away my notebook that I realized I had written nearly a half an hour after recess had ended.
"This is going in my drawer until later when I get ride of it." She placed my tablet in her drawer, slammed the compartment closed, and locked it in tight with the key. The kids laughed. It was always funny when the stupid girl got yelled out for doing a stupid thing. How could someone not notice the teacher was talking!? Silly girl with her silly thoughts!
I didn't have the courage to ask her until the hourly break if I would get it back at the end of the day, like usual.
"No! It's going in the garbage this time along with the rubber bands. Didn't you hear what I said earlier?" What she meant by "the rubber bands" was my feeble attempt at making a giant rubber band ball in my desk. I got pretty far if I do say so myself.
"Not even with my parents permission?"
Oh, how she yelled at me when I asked that,
She took away my writing and yelled at me in front of a group of peers that already thought I was denser than a fire hydrant. I hated her. I hated her so much. I was afraid of her. I was terrified.
When my mom got the letter that I was repeating the year, that I had failed, I locked myself in the bathroom and cried for hours. I cried until my face turned red and the snot drained out of my nose. I cried and pleaded to God to make the school think I was smart. I told him I was too afraid to tell the teachers myself and asked him to do it for me. I told him I'd make the honor roll and make my parents proud. I asked him for a second chance. I begged him. I'm an alter server, I put money in the basket, I sing in the choirs, I'm a good girl. Please don't make me a failure. I never wanted to be like this, I just wanted to be average.
My grandparents would be so ashamed, my friends would go on without me, and I would never be the smart person my brother was.
I went on to repeat the year, my mom demanding a different teacher. I was blessed with a new, amazingly understanding teacher.
The school assumed that my math grades would reflect my reading and writing regardless of my advanced scores so I was placed in remedial reading for nearly the remainder of my elementary career. I wasn't removed from the day and night tutoring until my sixth grade teacher read a report I had written and sent it to the guidance councilor.
Soon, I found myself sitting in the guidance councilors office with her gave me mountains of mints to stay preoccupied while she finished her calls. When she finished she looked down at me and smiled. I thought I was in trouble.
There was no way the kid would have ratted on me because of the caterpillar incident so quickly, right?
"You know you are very gifted, Amber."
"Thank you."
"Do you know what for?"
"No."
She lifted up the essay along with the drawing I had finished in class only the day before.
"I would have never guessed this was your writing. Amber, honey, you're at the reading and writing level of a highschooler."
I was dismissed. I swear when I walked back to class it felt as if every cloud in the sky was stapled to the bottom of my terribly ugly light up shoes.
I went through thirteen years in that school district and out of those 52 quarters (minus the strikes) I never made honor roll. I didn't graduate with that golden sash and my name wasn't announced with an amazing list of scholarships and awards on the graduation stage like I promised my late grandma Allegrucci.
I'm sorry you couldn't see me in college, grandma. I wanted you to see me do well.
But, no matter what grade is slapped on a project or what letter is written on an essay I know I have my writing. I have these dreams that I can interpret through my finger tips. It's truly some sort of magic. If that doesn't make me feel even the least bit smart then I might as well be the biggest idiot in the world!
