| General Non-Fiction posted March 12, 2023 |
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I Thank my Granddaughter, Kenzie for her Lovely Artwork
My Mom and the Teacher Fiasco
by Debi Pick Marquette
Why I Write Contest Winner
I used to think that I wrote because my mother wrote, or that it was genetic, or perhaps because it made her proud. But this particular day, my mother was the one who made me as proud as I ever remember.
In school, we studied poetry for about a month, and I was sure that Joyce Kilmer's "Trees" was the loveliest poem ever. Yet when it came to writing my first poem, it had nothing to do with trees.
The title was "My Dog ate my Cake." I remember the ending line was, "but my poor dog was dead." which showed where my head was at only a year after a very traumatic event in my life.
I had worked hard all weekend on my poem and wouldn't even let my parents read it. I wanted to surprise them with the A that I was sure I would get. I felt like Ralphie from "The Christmas Story," waiting for his teacher to grade his prize-worthy essay about wanting a Red Ryder BB Gun for Christmas. Unfortunately, my situation had turned out just as bad as his had. But instead of being told I would shoot my eye out, like Ralphie had been warned, I felt like someone yanked my heart out.
After I finished reading my poem for all the students and our teacher in our one room country school, everybody clapped as they had with the others. Then one of the boys in the next grade said, "You didn't write that. Your mother did just like she does all your homework for you." (This is precisely why it sometimes seemed to be a curse to have a school teacher for a mother) Before I knew it, more jumped on the bandwagon and teased me through recess.
I typically was not a cry baby or the type to rat others out, but I could not take it any longer. I ran into the schoolhouse crying. I went right to the teacher's desk and told her what the kids were saying.
I could not believe my ears when I heard her say, "Well Debi, you must admit, it looks pretty suspicious."
I have heard those words a thousand times, as they have played over and over in my head, since that third-grade incident. I think that was when I learned that there are few things more hurtful than being accused of doing something you didn't do.
I saw my paper on her desk with a great big red D on it. I grabbed it and ran out the door. I knew the consequences of leaving the school grounds, but at that moment I didn't care. I just needed my mother.
I ran to where my mom taught school, only two miles from where I went. When I rushed in sobbing, my mom immediately released the other kids to go outside for an extra recess. After she settled me down, I told her what had happened.
She sat quietly for a moment and read my poem. I saw tears come down her face as she knew how hard I had worked on it. Then she grabbed 2 Kleenexes from the box and handed one to me. And like we had done many other times when we both cried about something, we wiped each other's tears. She held me tightly and said, "Oh sweetheart, your poem is wonderful."
She then called the bus company and asked them to come a little early because she had someplace to be at 3:00.
My mom and I left as soon as the bus pulled out. She would not do her regular hours of staying till 4:00. She had made me a priority that day, and if nothing else, that was a gift to me.
What happened next is best described in the poem I wrote about a year ago, "Why I Write." So I will share two stanzas with you.
My mother, so angry, marched into my school
With fire in her eyes and was not at all cool
She chewed out the teacher, from left to the right
By the time she was done, Mrs. D was a fright
My mother taught me a lesson that day
Doesn't matter what people may think or say
If you love what you're doing and give it your best
Then ignore all the bad and keep all the rest
Those last two lines were a saying of hers. She must have changed them a hundred times before she died at the young age of 63. Whatever she changed it to was always fitting for the occasion. It always ended with, "throw out or keep all the rest."
I did receive an apology from my teacher the following day, as she also made the students who accused me of cheating say they were sorry. My mother was a gentle spirit with the kindest heart, but could be a fierce mama bear when need be. After what she did for me that day, I doubt I could have loved her more. This ordeal might have ended my writing for good, but my mother's love for me ensured that didn't happen. I had a nice book of poetry written before I even entered seventh grade. However, our house burned and we lost it.
I write for a few more reasons, as I often bare my soul to release hurtful experiences. It tends to make the more unpleasant events of my life more bearable. Especially if I can add humor to a sad situation and find a way to laugh at myself.
I also enjoy feeling a smile or chuckle from my reviewer or when someone tells me they can relate to what I have written.
But I think the most important reason is that I love spreading God's Truth to others.
And yes, I also write because I know it would still make my mom proud.
I used to think that I wrote because my mother wrote, or that it was genetic, or perhaps because it made her proud. But this particular day, my mother was the one who made me as proud as I ever remember.
In school, we studied poetry for about a month, and I was sure that Joyce Kilmer's "Trees" was the loveliest poem ever. Yet when it came to writing my first poem, it had nothing to do with trees.
The title was "My Dog ate my Cake." I remember the ending line was, "but my poor dog was dead." which showed where my head was at only a year after a very traumatic event in my life.
I had worked hard all weekend on my poem and wouldn't even let my parents read it. I wanted to surprise them with the A that I was sure I would get. I felt like Ralphie from "The Christmas Story," waiting for his teacher to grade his prize-worthy essay about wanting a Red Ryder BB Gun for Christmas. Unfortunately, my situation had turned out just as bad as his had. But instead of being told I would shoot my eye out, like Ralphie had been warned, I felt like someone yanked my heart out.
After I finished reading my poem for all the students and our teacher in our one room country school, everybody clapped as they had with the others. Then one of the boys in the next grade said, "You didn't write that. Your mother did just like she does all your homework for you." (This is precisely why it sometimes seemed to be a curse to have a school teacher for a mother) Before I knew it, more jumped on the bandwagon and teased me through recess.
I typically was not a cry baby or the type to rat others out, but I could not take it any longer. I ran into the schoolhouse crying. I went right to the teacher's desk and told her what the kids were saying.
I could not believe my ears when I heard her say, "Well Debi, you must admit, it looks pretty suspicious."
I have heard those words a thousand times, as they have played over and over in my head, since that third-grade incident. I think that was when I learned that there are few things more hurtful than being accused of doing something you didn't do.
I saw my paper on her desk with a great big red D on it. I grabbed it and ran out the door. I knew the consequences of leaving the school grounds, but at that moment I didn't care. I just needed my mother.
I ran to where my mom taught school, only two miles from where I went. When I rushed in sobbing, my mom immediately released the other kids to go outside for an extra recess. After she settled me down, I told her what had happened.
She sat quietly for a moment and read my poem. I saw tears come down her face as she knew how hard I had worked on it. Then she grabbed 2 Kleenexes from the box and handed one to me. And like we had done many other times when we both cried about something, we wiped each other's tears. She held me tightly and said, "Oh sweetheart, your poem is wonderful."
She then called the bus company and asked them to come a little early because she had someplace to be at 3:00.
My mom and I left as soon as the bus pulled out. She would not do her regular hours of staying till 4:00. She had made me a priority that day, and if nothing else, that was a gift to me.
What happened next is best described in the poem I wrote about a year ago, "Why I Write." So I will share two stanzas with you.
My mother, so angry, marched into my school
With fire in her eyes and was not at all cool
She chewed out the teacher, from left to the right
By the time she was done, Mrs. D was a fright
With fire in her eyes and was not at all cool
She chewed out the teacher, from left to the right
By the time she was done, Mrs. D was a fright
My mother taught me a lesson that day
Doesn't matter what people may think or say
If you love what you're doing and give it your best
Then ignore all the bad and keep all the rest
If you love what you're doing and give it your best
Then ignore all the bad and keep all the rest
Those last two lines were a saying of hers. She must have changed them a hundred times before she died at the young age of 63. Whatever she changed it to was always fitting for the occasion. It always ended with, "throw out or keep all the rest."
I did receive an apology from my teacher the following day, as she also made the students who accused me of cheating say they were sorry. My mother was a gentle spirit with the kindest heart, but could be a fierce mama bear when need be. After what she did for me that day, I doubt I could have loved her more. This ordeal might have ended my writing for good, but my mother's love for me ensured that didn't happen. I had a nice book of poetry written before I even entered seventh grade. However, our house burned and we lost it.
I write for a few more reasons, as I often bare my soul to release hurtful experiences. It tends to make the more unpleasant events of my life more bearable. Especially if I can add humor to a sad situation and find a way to laugh at myself.
I also enjoy feeling a smile or chuckle from my reviewer or when someone tells me they can relate to what I have written.
But I think the most important reason is that I love spreading God's Truth to others.
But I think the most important reason is that I love spreading God's Truth to others.
And yes, I also write because I know it would still make my mom proud.
Why I Write Contest Winner |
 Recognized |
#2 March 2023 |
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