an EMOtional memory

One upon a time, I fancied myself a poet. The year was 1985. I was a Junior High student, seventh grade, to be exact. Mullets, fluorescent clothes and Michael Jackson were all the rage. Junior High is a particularly cruel micro-world, and mine was no exception. There were a few teachers that were generally liked, but the English teacher wasn’t included on this very short list. She was the stereotypical old maid. I don’t remember her being particularly old, but she was single, wore odd clothes and some of the boys found a little metal tool for removing blackheads in her desk drawer. (Who buys those things? Why would you keep it in your school desk drawer? And most importantly, did it work?) Not the kinds of things that buy you favor with seventh graders.

I wrote a couple of poems and gave them to my English teacher to review. She might have been odd, but I figured she must know something about poetry, being a teacher and all. She seemed to be particularly fond of my poetry. As I look back now, I’m not so sure she liked my writing or if it was just the best of the worst.

I searched high and low and found an actual poem, written by yours truly in seventh grade, so you can judge for yourself:

Cupid’s Fun

(please note that the “dot” over the “I” in Cupid is supposed to be a heart)

I see a girl walking in the park.

I see a boy chasing a Lark.

I see a girl walking home from school.

I see a boy falling in a pool.

I see a girl get a drink from a stand.

I see a boy as he takes her hand.

Now my day of love is done,

(please imagine a heart around the word love)

I just love having so much fun.

Now this is obviously award winning poetry. No wonder my teacher was so impressed!

She submitted my name to be one of four students representing our school at the Young Writer’s Conference held at the local university. Not only was it an honor to be chosen, but it would mean I got to legally skip a full day of school, something no seventh grader in their right mind would turn down.

Upon arrival at the Conference we went to our assigned classes. Mine was Poetry. I entered the room and found myself in a group where half of the students were Emo* before Emo even was Emo. Then there was me, an unusually tall, unusually skinny girl who had written a rhyming poem about “love” à la Dr. Seuss. I didn’t know it at the time, but my ditzy rhyming poem was about to become even more ditzy. Oh, so much more.

We all sat in a circle and the teacher asked if anyone wanted to read their poems. I didn’t want to appear to be too over confident, so I planned on volunteering second or third. I sat and listened as the first volunteer read his poem. He read some words that I guess were loosely related, but his poem read didn’t even rhyme! “What is wrong with that kid?” I thought to myself, “How did he ever get invited to this conference? His teacher must have been really desperate,” I silently smirked.

Then another student volunteered to read a poem. It was dark and edgy and mystic and had NO rhyming words whatsoever. The third volunteer followed suit. By then I realized that possibly, perhaps, just maybe, I was the one with the LAME-O poems. What was my teacher thinking? I didn’t belong in this class! Where was Rhyming Poetry 101? Where was the Shel Silverstein Synopsis ? The Dr. Seuss Discussion? Help me!

I slouched down a little in my chair, donned my best Emo face, and tried to act Emo while silently praying that I wouldn’t have to read my poem. Fortunately we ran out of time before all the poems could be shared.

When the bell rang, signaling the end of the session and the start of lunch, I’d never been so excited about a brown bag filled with lukewarm food.

I don’t remember much after that. I think I blocked it out in some kind of PTSD blur.

Although, I imagine when I got home that day, my mom inquired about the conference. I imagine the conversation went something like this:

Mom- “Hi honey, how was your day!?”

Me- “It was fine. We got there at nine. I tried not to whine.”

Mom- “What did you do?”

Me- “We read our stuff. It was really tough. I wanted to sluff.”

Mom- “That’s nice dear, are you ready for dinner?”

Me- “Yes, food would be great. I don’t want to wait. Here is my plate.”

Apparently I wasn’t quite ready for the Emo scene.

*Emo

2 Comments

undefined:

ha ha ha ha

hahahahahahahha

hilarious, .....um various....um.....aquarius

that's all I've got

kt

undefined:

That's totally funny.

I remember thinking Shel Silverstein was the absolute best poet out there!

I suppose there's a time and a place and a style for everything.

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