So, a lot of you have started to ask, “Where are you? Where’s the next story?”
And I’ll be honest, I’ve started several stories. But I kind of found myself in a bit of a holding pattern. None of them were good enough. They weren’t quite right. I wasn’t sure I was portraying the right message, or whether something could be taken the wrong way, or whether I might offend somebody.
You know, all the things that are really helpful when you’re trying to write.
Anyhow, the interesting thing about healing and growing is that it makes room in your memory. It makes room in your brain. Things get processed and filed and put away, and suddenly it’s like a drawer opens up for something else to come forward.
And while I was sitting here worrying about whether my next story was good enough, a memory I had completely forgotten about came forward.
Grade 11.
My homeroom and Social Studies teacher, Mr. A.
I’ll let you determine what the A stands for by the time you’re done reading.
Let’s start with homeroom.
Our student advisory did this Valentine’s fundraiser. I think you paid two dollars, filled out some questionnaire, and then you got a list of your top 10 romantic matches in the school.
The day the results were delivered, Mr. A was handing them out and announced to the class that he didn’t even need to open his because he already knew who his number-one match was going to be.
And he made it sound like this was a very bad thing.
While looking directly at me.
Sure enough, he opened his results and I was his number-one match.
Thank goodness he was not mine.
Anyhow.
Carry on to Social Studies 11.
There was another day in his class when apparently I was glaring at him.
He was randomly rambling on about whatever Social Studies thing we were supposed to be learning when suddenly he stopped talking and announced that if looks could kill, he was going down in burning flames.
Everybody was confused.
Then they started looking around the classroom trying to figure out what the hell he was talking about.
Apparently, it was me.
Apparently, I was burning holes through him with my eyes.
Except I wasn’t.
I was staring off into space, completely oblivious to what was going on around me, probably just trying to make it look like I was paying attention.
My eyes happened to be pointed in his direction.
Oops.
Clearly the man had a guilty conscience.
Then there was the time we had to write a report, and we had pretty much free range on the topic. Pick something you’re interested in and write about it.
Well, I had something I was very passionate about. The news was always on in our house, and this particular subject was something I’d heard a lot about.
So off I went to the library.
I signed out books. I still remember the titles of several of them. I read them front to back. I researched the heck out of my topic, wrote my paper and handed it in.
Then came the day we got our papers back.
Mr. A was wandering around the classroom handing them out when he got to one particular paper.
And he stopped.
He started telling the entire class that he had never seen a paper of this calibre.
Absolutely perfect.
Not a single typo.
Not a single spelling mistake.
Not a single grammatical error.
The references were done perfectly. The topic had been absolutely nailed. He went on and on about how exceptional this paper was.
And then he got to my desk.
He dropped it in front of me and said:
“Too bad it’s too good to be yours.”
Big, fat red F.
Obviously, I was devastated.
And pissed off.
I had put a huge amount of energy into that paper. It was a subject I genuinely cared about. I had done the research. I had read the books. I had written every damn word of it.
So I went to my English teacher and then to our vice-principal.
They both read the paper. They both went back to Mr. A.
And they both told him essentially the same thing:
She is absolutely capable of this work when she’s motivated.
And I’ll be honest—I was a straight-A student up until I wasn’t.
But that’s a whole other story.
Eventually, Mr. A conceded that yes, apparently I had written the paper.
He changed my grade.
But he absolutely refused to give me the A+ that, just days earlier, he had stood in front of the entire class and said that paper deserved.
Now, I should probably give you a little more context about Mr. A.
He was also a PE teacher at our school. And I can’t even call him your stereotypical PE teacher because most of our PE teachers weren’t like that at all. They were kind. Empathetic. Fun. Supportive. They wanted to see their students succeed.
Mr. A was more of an “I’m a brilliant jock, I’m hot stuff, and everybody should know it” kind of guy.
Conceited. Arrogant.
He did have a beautiful wife. Ironically, I think her name was Sarah. She had red hair and reminded me of Fergie—Princess Fergie, not the singer.
And I remember thinking after the whole essay debacle:
Man, karma is going to bite you hard.
That summer, they left our community.
But the funny thing is, nearly forty years later, I don’t think that’s actually the ending to this story.
Because this memory came back to me while I was sitting here worrying that my next story wasn’t good enough.
Was it written well enough?
Was I saying the right thing?
Would somebody take it the wrong way?
Was it worthy of putting out there?
And suddenly I remembered the first time someone looked at something I had written, told an entire room how exceptional it was, and then decided it couldn’t possibly be mine because it was too good.
Mr. A wasn’t questioning whether the paper was good enough.
He was questioning whether I was good enough to have written it.
And maybe, in a much quieter way, I’ve been doing a little bit of that to myself.
So perhaps the next story doesn’t have to be perfect.
Maybe it doesn’t have to carry exactly the right message for every single person who reads it.
Maybe it doesn’t even have to be “good enough.”
Maybe it just needs to be mine.
And just like that, I think my writer’s block might be broken.
And as for Mr. A…..I am sure he is still an Asshole.