the truth about ap english.

character piece due monday.

I never had an enemy until I met Ms. Smith. I didn't mean for it to happen. I actually remember being excited about her class, thinking how great taking AP English would be- I loved English, I even loved grammar. I knew that I was a good writer, so I thought she would like me for it. And she happened to be married to my 10th-grade history teacher, who loved me and thought I was a great writer too- maybe he brought it up at dinner one night, I don't know. What I did know was that I worked hard over the summer with the confidence that I could get her to like me. English teachers always liked me; it was an unwritten law. This was going to be the greatest class ever, at least until 12th-grade AP English.
I have never been so wrong in my life.

It only took one day for me to know that I didn't like Ms. Smith. I had expected the first day of class to be incredible, but instead it had been... incredibly boring. I had been spoiled though. In 10th grade I happened to have one of the world's greatest English teachers. It didn't matter what you thought about English; if you were in Mr. Rollins' class, it was your favorite. Math people looked forward to it. Apathetic people looked forward to it. All of his students looked forward to it. Maybe Ms. Smith just wasn't as... charismatic as Mr. Rollins. Maybe I was being too judgemental. Maybe she just needed another chance.

There was no second chance. Ms. Smith didn't take very long to prove that she was a monster. She openly victimized us in class, telling us that we were pathetic idiots. I was actually afraid of her. She even had a uniform for her worst days: I feared that salmon-colored sweater and the cruel antics that it symbolized whenever I saw it.

“Is she wearing the sweater today?” I would ask Claire Morgan, who had Ms. Smith’s class right before I did, as I passed her on the way to English. Sometimes I could feel that she was wearing it, and I cringed when my fear was verified. And then I would sit in my chair on the edge of the room, zoning out as Mr. Smith told her stupid punny jokes and attempted to teach and insulted my classmates and talked about her childhood.  Not only was she a terrifying person, but she was also a horrible teacher, which only made the situation worse. We weren't learning anything, and we were criticized because of it. Worst of all, she didn't teach us anything that showed up on the national exam.
"I'm not supposed to be preparing you for a test," she would say, "I'm teaching you other important stuff." Important?!? She didn’t teach us anything unless she liked it! All we learned was grammar, and we were not supposed to learn how to diagram a sentence, we were supposed to learn how to analyze literature. Learn. Hah. Fat chance. Had we not covered literary terms, we would have left every question on the national exam blank, I swear to God. I learned more in one day of Mr. Rollins’ class than I did in one month of AP English with Melissa Smith, and I’m not even exaggerating, it actually happened.

Melissa Smith scared me. She rarely smiled, and she especially didn’t smile in the classroom. Zuver Center 201. That name is synonymous with hell to me, with Melissa Smith waiting for me in the icy seventh circle. Shakespeare posters branched from the corner closest to her desk, and a life-sized image of Sir William himself stood there and watched us. She spoke of Steinbeck with the highest regards. The pants that she wore defied gravity, with zippers climbing near the middle of her torso. She wore pale colors, particularly when she was in a bad mood, with that pink sweater displaying the peak of her rage. And then there was Melissa herself, who scared me the most, because this was the force of her anger incarnate. She had a cold stare that said,

“I do not like you. We are not friends. Don’t you dare think that I will ever like you. I am superior to you, and I can make you miserable. I can destroy you. Don’t think that you can outsmart me, because you won’t. I don’t even have to try to outsmart you. Watch your back.” Well, at least that’s what they said to me. They were not kind eyes, and they did not want to transfer any warmth when the met mine.

I don’t know what I was thinking. I really don’t. I don’t know why I even wanted to leave the comfort zone that I had reached. Ms. Smith did not hate me. She certainly didn’t like me, but she didn’t hate me. She criticized me, but she didn’t go out of her way to do so. I don’t know why the thought even crossed my mind. If I tried to be nice to Ms. Smith, I would make her hate me. I knew that. Jackson McCann, twisted as he was, flirted with her every day in vain of getting any sort of affection back. He made a fool out of himself every day. Did I really want that to happen to me? Did I really want to make myself look like an idiot? I really don’t know why, but I think I did.

I was aware that I was in over my head, but I didn’t care. Once I presented myself with the challenge, I wanted to win. I had to win. I believed that I could make her like me, and I don’t know why. I was out of my mind, I really was. And I was on the road to becoming a fool. Not as much as Jackson, though. I didn’t want to sacrifice my spine in the hopes that she would like me. I didn’t want to give in to her by any means, I wanted to grow on her. In order to impress her, though, I had to act like I gave a s**t, which was hard because I didn’t give a s**t. How could I be engaged in something I didn’t care about, especially after I had been so disillusioned? I didn’t care, but I worked. I thought about what I was writing down when I did my homework. I put some heart into my papers. I tried to keep my temper in class. I tried to show that I was willing to change. I don’t know why, but I tried.

I gave up after a while. I asked a question about Emily Dickinson, and Ms. Smith offended me. The nerve of that b***h. What had I been thinking? What the hell was I thinking? Why did I think I could get Ms. Smith to like me- a cruel, heartless woman to like me? What had I been thinking? “I’ll show that b***h,” I thought, “you messed with the wrong person, b***h. Got that?” I was going to make her regret singling me out and making me look like an idiot. And it was going to be easy.

            I became obnoxious. I stopped speaking so quietly when I insulted Ms. Smith in class. I mocked Jackson whenever he turned around. I even wrote a poem about him and recited bits of it during class. I didn’t pay attention. I voiced my opinion, especially when it was negative. I stopped listening in class. I wrote a paper about a book that she hated. I bought the Sparknotes guide to the exam and brought it to class so I could make her cringe and watch.  I told everybody I could that was considering taking her class that it was a waste of time. I even told her that the things that she taught us steered us in the opposite direction of what was on the national exam. My original plan to avenge Ms. Smith would have been foolproof had two things not happened. Firstly, I fell in love. I couldn’t help it- East of Eden seemed like a good book, so I picked it up and started reading it. And then there was no going back, because I had fallen in love with the works of John Steinbeck. I rushed to my Virgil, Mr. Rollins, because I had to talk about East of Eden with him. He hadn’t read it, but I wanted to talk about Steinbeck. And so I gathered up all of my courage and kept it close to the center of my guts. I only knew one person who loved Steinbeck as much as I did, and her name was Melissa Smith. The second thing was an epiphany that I had in homeroom one day. And in that instant, I knew everything. Melissa Smith was mean to us because she herself had been disillusioned. I remembered hearing her hint at it. She said that she wanted to write jokes for Sesame Street, but she got disillusioned with the harsh nature of journalism in college. She had wanted to do something significant and fulfilling, and now here she was, teaching English to a bunch of kids who hater her, amounting to nothing, middle-aged, and married to one of the biggest nerds in the world. She was afraid of mediocrity, and here she was, a slave to it. I didn’t need to fight this battle anymore, because my enemy had lost a long time ago. And in a way, I was at peace.

 

After my epiphany, I didn’t try to make Ms. Smith hate me as much. I had to be nicer to her, because it would seem really rude to be nice to her when I only wanted to know something about Steinbeck, and I wanted to know a lot about Steinbeck. I even felt a little pity for Ms. Smith. My attention just shifted towards other things, anyway. I had accepted the fact that I was going to fail the national exam long ago, so I decided to just study for AP U.S. history, which made me happy. I wrote poems and thought. Cook English and I made fun of Jackson more and more, and that gave me a reason to not hate 7^th-period English so much. Summer was getting nearer, and I was too excited to care about my stupid eleventh-grade English class. I would be at Harvard soon, anyway, and I would get to learn some real English, and hopefully eventually amount to something, which would be the best revenge on Ms. Smith of all. On the last day of class, Cook and I were making fun of Jackson, who had asked to stay after class yet again. The bell rang, and I walked up to Ms. Smith, thinking that I could offer her some advice.

            “You know, you can always tell him that you’re just not interested.”

And do you know what she did? She laughed.

 

Reviews

[Gone]

This great little piece began with a perfect opening line setting the tone for the entire story. Your character is interestingly gentle as she describes this learning experience. The gradual acquisition of insight into her Ms. Smith is endearing. Their mutual love for Steinbeck (a sentiment I identify with) becomes the door to recognition.

Developmentally the story began with tension held the tension though it varied in intensity and then the story resolved with a laugh. One could well expect another installment of this relationship. Perhaps Ms. Smith is a Harvard professor teaching at this school in order to support her husband who has gone through a difficult time... I'm sure there's a way to transport these two to the same place. :-)

Thank you for the enjoyable story SS.

[WayOath]

This was awesome. You are indeed a great writer and your words are so inviting! I mean, this hooked me from start to finish. I had to know how you got revenge. I am going into 12th grade AP English next year, I am going to have the same teacher and I learned almost zero this year. My english teacher before that never gave me fair grades, I mean, sheesh...what is up with english. But anyhow, this was very funny and entertaining and the ending was perfect. I never expected her to LAUGH! Of all things! She laughed! That was awesome. You have a huge talent for writing! I love your style, keep rockin it!

[Alice Oiseau]

A charming essay that retells the frustration encountered through junior year in AP English. Teachers come in all different personalities. It's unfortunate she didn't prepare you for the exam, but if it's any consolation, my AP English teacher was an alcoholic. Bottle of vodka in a water bottle every day to class.
A few typos, so look back and fix them.
At times it seemed to get too much like a diary entry and you were venting. Maintain your professional air and voice that you create in the beginning and end.
Well penned.
Cheers.

[Ramza]

One word comes to mind: WOW

I initially just stumbled on to this page and thought I wasn't going to read it but you just got me hooked. I mean the language is simple yet perfectly inviting. The feelings expressed are so easy to connect with since most everyone has that one teacher that pissed them off tremendously. It was an easy to read, interesting, and believable piece. The only things wrong with it were at one point you wrote "Mr. Smith told her stupid punny" as you can tell it should be Mrs. Smith and this statement "Cook English and I made fun of Jackson more and more" I think you meant to write "In English Cook and I made fun of Jackson more and more". Other than a few clerical errors, this piece was MAGNIFICENT, keep up the good work.

Oh and I had an awesome AP English teacher.

[Drew Wade]

Well, I will be honest. I tried and tried to find fault with this, and I couldn't. I think, at least in my estimation, this is a perfect look back, a la "The Wonder Years", or "A Christmas Story".

One thing- I was confused by the ending. The 'you could just tell him you're not interested' line, was that in reference to something M. Smith said? if so, I guess I didn't pick up on it.

I guess another question is, what is this going for? is there a big project in the works? haha. peace.