I'm
a writer today because of one extraordinary teacher: Ms. Marilee
Ruddle. Yes, that's her real name and I hope she googles herself and
reads this.
Ms.
Ruddle had a reputation for being ridiculously tough. She famously
didn't give A's. Overachievers like me with a 4.0 GPA got their
parents to get them a different teacher for English 11. I was not so
lucky. I got Ms. Ruddle. Ha! Turns out I was the lucky one after
all.
Prior
to my junior year, I'd always been praised for my writing, getting
good grades, winning contests, feeling confident and pleased with
myself. That was soon to change. I got my first essay back with a
C+/C-. Top grade for mechanics, bottom grade for content. I was
stunned to say the least. Angry. Treated unfairly. And for the
first time, my work had turned all red. What was happening?
“This
paper is all fluff and no content. You've made careless grammatical
errors. I expect so much more from you.” Talk about developing
insecurities. Who was wrong here? All my other teachers? Ms.
Ruddle? Or was it me? I labored over the re-write of that essay.
Got it to a B-/C+. Damn. This was going to be a long year.
As
it turned out though, it was a fun year. We memorized poetry and
recited it for a grade, during private appointments with her. THAT I
got an A on. “You put such emotion into your recitation, and not
only did you know them all, you seemed to enjoy yourself.” Now
we're talking!
We
sat in a circle and listened to an old, scratchy piece of vinyl that spun in circles before us. It was Dylan Thomas himself, reading “Fern
Hill”.
We learned of art, it's various styles, and memorized the
name of the painting, the name of the artist, and the years the
artist lived. Again, we had private appointments and she held up a
print, and we would say, “American Gothic, Grant Wood, 1891-1942.”
(I only had to look up the years. Show me those 25 paintings today
and I'd probably get a respectable B, if I don't have to
recite the years. Everything else stuck. I can still recite the
poems, too. Would you like to hear The Road Less Traveled or
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening?)
Fourth
quarter we spent on a research paper, learning the entire process
step by step. I worked my butt off on this. I remember lying in my
bikini, all oiled up (we all had to be tan back then...) in my yard,
books spread about me, and making index cards. I lamented the amount
of work, but I persevered. I was jealous of those not in her class
who had free afternoons.
I
hardly dared look as she passed them back to us. I almost fainted
when I saw the grade: A-/A. Unbelievable. As I paged through the
ten, painstakingly typed pages, I came across one with only one line
of red. It read, “This page flows quite nicely.”
I
was a writer. I may not have gotten an A on my report card, but I
got an A on a paper. The most important paper of the year. Ms.
Ruddle liked it! I had my confidence, and I WAS a better writer
thanks to her relentless pushing.
What
inspired you to start writing? Maybe thinking back, and putting it
on paper will give you a confidence boost. It worked for me.
Thanks, Jeremy, for prompting me.
*****
The
Insecure Writer's Support Group, brainchild of Alex J. Cavanaugh,
posts first Wednesday of the month. You can join us. There's a tab
at his blog.
