28 A Third Grader Tried

Just like an unpopular girl fantasizes about her unattainable high-school crush, normal writing is out of my league. Haunted by the distant memory of my 3rd grade teacher burning me in front of my peers over poor spelling and bad use of grammar, I’ve second guessed my ability to “write well” ever since. I lack much confidence when it comes to education, in general, as I subconsciously subscribe to the belief that being a good writer or being “smart” is less about content and more about good grammar. That sweaty and ashamed third grader is frozen in time and becomes crippled with anxiety whenever I attempt to thaw her out. She has paved an icy road throughout my academic career and is why I have made every attempt to avoid writing papers and even dropped out of high school my sophomore year. Like the bashful girl and her schoolgirl crush, I’ve just never felt good enough.

However, I do hold a few golden eggs of triumph inside the web of negative experiences in my scarce academic writing career. In sixth grade, my essay on “Elementary School Reflections” was chosen to be read at my school’s graduation ceremony.  A trail of blood-stained scribbles and scratches made their way through my essay, yet this time my sloppy grammar didn’t kill my paper. It was the heart of my voice that gave life to my writing and not that other nonsensical stuff in red. The day of the graduation ceremony I felt like a popstar in my platform shoes as I cruised by the row of smart kids on my way to the podium. I adjusted the microphone and proudly poured my heart out to the entire audience of students, family members and teachers. That day I felt like I had made it, like I had something special that no one else did; I had something to say, and people wanted to hear it! Best of all no one was there to dissect my paper and judge me for poor spelling and improper grammar.

Within this same elementary school timeline my ego was scorched even more when I was placed in the lowest of the low reading class. Both of my parents were poor readers, too, and that didn’t aid in my confidence. Every inch of my being would freeze in anticipation when the teacher would play my single most feared classroom activity, “popcorn reading.”  The fact that at home my dad stuttered, my mom was dyslexic, and my brother had ADHD made me feel as if I was destined to be dumb. Being in a class clumped up with the other obvious poor readers was humiliating and gave my already low self-esteem something else to ruminate over.

I just didn’t feel good enough to be good at something. “Nails out girls, let’s punch out our pain onto the typewriter as we read books and expand upon our dreams” was sort of my motto during this uncomfortable time.  A punk rock saint with pink hair and black boots ended up becoming my savior. She volunteered her time to help ease my reading struggles and with the power of belief I landed a spot in the accelerated reading program. The teachers had never witnessed a student progress so fast and I had never felt like such an imposter. There will always be a sense of uncertainty about my writing skills, and I am not sure I will ever be able to ditch that scared little third grader inside of me. I’m not sure I want to. She is the blaze of fire behind fingers that burn to write and the proof of why it is always important to try.