It was all eyes on me in that very moment. Just the feeling of judgmental stares and mocking whispers was enough to get my hands trembling. I could remember her avoiding my troubled gaze. “But why?… Did I not meet the criteria? Did I mess up? It couldn’t have been that..” My thoughts were becoming overbearing. It only took a split second for her to get me to compose myself. It’s not like I held a grudge against her at the time. In fact, if it weren’t for her, who knows where I would have been today as a writer.

It was my first year of high school so, naturally, things were starting out rough. The only entity, at the time, that was keeping me from a mental breakdown were my poems. My poems were not only the outcome of my hardships and downfalls, but a depiction of my success and gaiety as well. It was an outside source where all my built-up emotions, good and bad, could rest in sanctuary. Writing wasn’t just a mumbo-jumbo of words to me. Writing is, and always will be, an extenuation of one’s mind; a piece of art that reflects one’s identity. It helped me more than anyone could at the time.

It was the beginning of our second quarter and everyone was approaching this semester afresh. All our horrible grades from last quarter were past us now. We were ‘new’ people, ready to start on a blank slate. However, for me, this semester meant starting our big poem project for English class. I was adrenalized by the fact that I was going to get to work on and present a poem in front of my whole class and, possibly, school as well. English was my favorite class to go to everyday. Maybe it was because I was being biased, but the air in there was different. I would walk into English class feeling rejuvenated by the vibrant colorful posters, the crisp air, the joyful energy and just the aura that the classroom gave off itself. The time had finally come when our teacher, Ms. Rosaline, had introduced us to the requirements and criteria for our poems. The theme given to us was landscapes. After establishing the theme, I worked hard, day and night, to perfect my writing. I made sure my vocabulary and use of figurative language would have the utmost potential to impress my teacher and peers.

“This was it”, I thought. The day I could present myself and my capabilities had ultimately arrived. Ms. Rosaline was calling us up one by one to read out our poems. I could tell that most of my peers had just winged it and didn’t put much thought or personality into their writing. The fact that they were not taking the assignment seriously almost angered me. However, it reigned upon me that not everyone has the same liking towards writing and, in a sense, that consoled me. My turn had eventually come, and I stood up in front of all my peers to present. Before starting I took a deep breath and waited a minute to take in as much as I could from the scene as possible. The teacher was standing at the opposite end of the classroom, making sure I would project my voice loud enough, all my classmates were looking up at me, and there I was in my most presentable wear with this frail piece of paper that I had the most paramount of pride in.

After I had presented my poem in front of my class, I felt as if I had lifted this huge weight off my shoulders. The classroom was filled with the echoes of applause and compliments. That’s when my teacher had said “Do you see that students? That’s a great example of what you should NOT do.” My heart sank. I started believing that I could not have heard her right. On the contrary, she had me stand up in front of the class while she recited reasons why she believed that my poem was absolute waste. My teacher looked at the class and told them that poetry needs to “make sense”. I asked her what she meant, and she replied, “I didn’t like your poem, you could go sit down.” She never really specified what was wrong with my writing nor did she tell me what I needed to touch up on. I started questioning my skill as a writer. All the joyful faces of my peers suddenly converted into disapproving stares. The once crisp air of the classroom turned into an aura that was almost intoxicating for me to be in. The English classroom never felt the same to me again.

I then began questioning the idea of writing and art in itself. I repeated to myself the renowned words of Margaret W. Hungerford; “Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder.” If writing is like a form of art, perspective and attitude play a large role. Art is solely based on one’s frame of reference or state of mind; and what makes writing any different?

After that moment, I started doing my own revising. I wrote in my free time to nit-pick errors that I found in my own writing. Everything ranging from grammar to vocabulary and writing style was what I mostly focused on. Every time I thought my writing had improved I always told myself that it could be better.

In spite of that experience, I continued to write and ended up winning ‘best poem’ chosen by the class near the end of the year. I started encouraging myself to take her words as a guiding tool to aid me in making improvements to myself as a writer. I don’t hold any grudges against my teacher. In fact, I almost feel the need to thank her for giving me that extra ‘nudge’. I’m not going to pretend that it was not a mortifying experience, but, I wholly believe, that if it weren’t for her I would not be where I am now as a writer.

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