The Awkward Moment When You Spend More Time Researching “How To Write an Essay” Than Actually Writing It

Photo Cred to http://forninepounds.blogspot.com/2007_09_01_archive.html

    

      I have never been a natural writer. When I write, Shakespeare weeps, as if thinking, “How can I have the same birthday as this pathetic young lad?” Of course, he’d say that sentence in his confusing way, but ask me to translate that for you—it’d be a disaster.

            Because of this handicap, I usually end up taking longer than everybody else to write simple paragraphs.

            For example, a week ago, an essay was due for my English class. It was a pain and I actually was up until 1 am editing to make sure there was absolutely nothing that my teacher could take off points from.

            And then it hit me. 

            We were supposed to write an expository essay.

            And I actually had no idea what an expository essay was.

            Yes, this is what happens when you are up at 1 am proofreading your essay that is due in 6 hours.

            So I researched what an expository essay was and realized that I had written my essay… in the form of a narrative.

            Really, Sarah Cruz? A narrative? Come on, you could have made it a little bit easier, but no, you had to put your voice in the writing as well as some pointless anecdotes that your English teacher has no intentions of giving you points for.

            At this point in time, it was about 1:45 am and I was blindly looking for a 5-hour energy in my kitchen, only to realize that this was a house with four children and that the closest thing I would find to 5-hour energy was some tea in the cabinet.

            Total let down, but I took what I could get. I chugged down 2 mug-fulls of green tea and the burning of the hot water definitely woke me up.

            And I wrote that expository essay.

            In fact, I wrote 4 drafts in one hour, and had never felt so utterly accomplished. At 3 am, I did a final check-over, printed all 4 drafts and the final draft, stapled them together and passed out on my desk.

            At 6:45 am, my alarm clock rang and after muttering some nonsense and about 6 of the 7 swear words in one breath, I got up and went to school.

            I turned my essay in that day.

            My English teacher told me to rip off all the other drafts I had made. She only wanted the final draft.

            I have never wanted to yell at a teacher as much as I did at that moment. I should said something super dramatic like, “I put my sweat and tears… and blood… and chugged two hot mugs of tea at 2 in the morning for those four drafts and you only want my final draft?!”

            But I didn’t. Because I consider myself someone with a little bit of common sense.

            Lesson learned: Don’t bother proofreading your essays at 1 am. Just turn the one you have in.

            And that’s the story of my horrible writing day. I’m still waiting on that essay to be graded. I’m going for maybe… a C? Tops, definitely a C.

            Sometimes I really wonder why I joined the newspaper at my school.

The Awkward Moment When The Teacher Calls On Everyone EXCEPT You

Photo Creds to: http://wwwdelivery.superstock.com/WI/223/1785/PreviewComp/SuperStock_1785R-3295.jpg

Note: Names have been changed for privacy reasons

         “Circle up,” my teacher, Ms. Brown, says. It’s the usual routine- getting 26 desks to form a perfect circle in the windowless cell that I call my English classroom. The 26 of us grumble about having to move our lazy butts into formation, but we do it nonetheless, because, well, that’s just what honor students do—they do things that they don’t want to do simply to please adults (it’s kind of like taking the honors class to please their parents).

         Ms. Brown asks a prompt question to get the gears in our small heads turning, and I raise my hand quickly, but someone beats me to do it, and he is called on.

          It’s okay, I think to myself, I’ll just keep raising my hand and then I’ll share my idea.

          5 minutes pass, the Ms. Brown hasn’t called on me yet. I jot my idea down on a sheet of paper because I have the memory capacity of a goldfish and pray that she will call on me.

          10 minutes pass, and my arm is crying, begging me to put it down, because blood is no longer circulating to my fingers.

          “Jonny, what do you think about this?” Ms. Brown asks a boy who sits in the corner. He shrugs nonchalantly, says something to get her to accept that he doesn’t know the answer, and goes back to sleep.

          The same girl who has been picked on about four times now raises her hand.

          “Nina, you may talk.”

          Alright, so at this point, it has been 15 minutes and I think that everyone in this class has said my ideas, which I am writing on my paper, but then I have to cross them off. Please pick on me!

          Finally, after 20 minutes have passed, I hear my name.

          “Sarah, anything to add?”

          “No, sorry,” I say simply and call it a day. My arm is dead and I give up. All of my comments have been said in some shape, way or form by the girl who gets called on at least 4 times a day.

          After class, I ask Ms. Brown how I can boost my participation in her class. Her answer?

          Raise your hand.

          And I take that. Because I’m an honor student, and I do stuff because it makes you happy, Ms. Brown.

          Just one request. Please call on me next time.