Born this way

Standardized testing rolled around my fourth grade year; I still distinctly remember taking the writing portion. I wrote a short story about a girl with a poster of a Scottish terrier in her room. She discovered that if she colored his collar blue he would, magically, spring to life and play with her for a time. (My childhood love and longing for a dog had not yet faded away.) A few months later, I remember my teacher, Mrs V, approached me during reading time. "Megan," she said, "I want to show you this book. A ten year old boy wrote it and got it published! People your age can do amazing things." (Try as hard as I might, I have never been able to remember the name of or find this book. Yet.) I don't know if I realized then or if I have the memory of a later realization, but I knew she was encouraging me to write.

In sixth grade, my teacher, Mr T, called me into his office. He is one of my favorite teachers--believed in me, though I was the awkward girl, and insisted that if I arrived in middle school and they gave me trouble about entering at the high level classes he recommended me for that I should have them call him. I sat in his office and he had one of my papers in hand. "Megan," he asked, "this is a great essay but I can't shake the worry that it's not your work." The one time in my life I've been accused of plagiarizing, but I knew he esteemed me and was honestly troubled about it. I insisted I wrote it myself and later laughed with my friends that I should probably dumb it down.

In eighth grade I had a wonderful teacher, Mr M, who allowed us to submit our writing to him, whether for school or not, and he would read it, make notes, and hand it back. I put many a poem in that turn-in manilla folder on his desk. That was just about the entirety of my poetry period, but his notes were always heartfelt, while still helping me to improve. He had me sit down with his TA many times to discuss citation, style, formatting--many things the class wasn't ready for but I was already trying to use (and usually botching pretty bad). (Don't even get me started on the time--third grade--I wanted to learn cursive so badly I made up my own and the teacher had to move cursive up on the curriculum so she would be able to understand my writing again.) I had many important, personal talks with Mr M and while my reach was further than my writing was good, he is where the heart in my writing comes from.

I would go to high school and study many years under Mr W, an incredible teacher who was very fair and very old fashioned. I spent two years as his student and the other two as his TA--I refused to leave his classroom. I'll never forget the day he come back, after starting class, to give me something to do. "Here," he said, "grade these." They were the term papers for a sophomore class--they were a big deal. "Uh... I don't think I should..." "Why not? You would do a great job. You know what you're doing." I insisted he should grade them, but his faith in me is one of the best things that happened to me those years.

Tomorrow I'm headed home and I'll return an English major in the final stretch--my last semester. Words make sense to me. Sentences and organization and style. When I write I have an ability that is not my own. This gift has blessed me beyond my understanding, and has opened the world to me, helped me understand other people, help me grow outside of myself. It is my way into the world.

I am proud to be graduating as that silly kid with horrific cursive, accused of plagiarizing, who couldn't cite a source to save her life or didn't trust herself to grade papers, but longed to grow so much and stretched further than she was supposed to. The writing has always come easily, but the growth never did, and when I cross the stage in April that is what I'm going to be grateful for.