A long time ago in a life once led, a simple man asked a teacher a simple question, “How do you write a story?” The answer, however, was anything but simple. The reply from the educator was that every story has a beginning, middle and end, but not necessarily in that order.
She didn’t mean for her words to be cryptic, but to someone who received a D in Mrs. Newsome’s eleventh grade English class, they certainly were. She also added something that, until recently, seemed totally absurd. I guess for this story to make any sense at all, it should start at the beginning, a beginning from a long, long time ago on that old familiar street not so far away called Flamingo.
The Beginning: Gripping the papers in my hand, the red correction marks on them seemed to blur, as I grew dizzy. I leaned against Ms. Newsome’s desk for balance and tried to stay upright as the small classroom started to spin then slowly faded away. Falling to the floor in front of all the other students would be even more embarrassing than receiving the lowest grade on the final term paper we had turned in a week ago, but just barely.
Stunned, I mumbled that I didn’t understand all the red marks on my paper.
Mrs. Newsome replied, “Well, I didn’t understand your paper.” It seems I had a problem with comprehending the English language.
The Middle: I don’t blame Mrs. Newsome for my shortcomings. Being one of 35 students in her 10 o’clock class, she just didn’t have the time to give me the attention I obviously needed. Embarrassed beyond belief as I left her class that day, I tossed my paper in the trash when no one was looking. I was able to hide my failings from everyone … except myself.
Like those permanent red marks, her words have stayed with me. I wasn’t as smart as others. No one has ever said it over the years, but they didn’t have to. I believe it because of that paper. That is until last month.
The End: So what else did the educator from my past say to me over 18 years ago? “Some stories don’t really have an ending.” In eleventh grade, I thought I was not as smart as the rest of the kids in the room. After graduation and a few fruitless short years in college, I’ve stayed away from the educational system that branded me, but I know now I was wrong to do so.
For the last month I’ve been volunteering in our local elementary school, reading to classes of students and helping out with reading comprehension. The need is great and there’re just too few teachers.
Seems to be a problem that has been around for years, and it’s something I know of first hand from Mrs. Newsome’s class.
It’s a new beginning for me… and to a story that was written, and I thought finished, a long, long time ago.
Being one of 35 students, it was easy to fall behind and get lost in Mrs. Newsome’s English class. Looking back, I realize she really could’ve used the help from someone willing to volunteer. And I could have too.
Think of how how things will be different for students today, and for the rest of their lives, if someone volunteers to help out in classes? With the New Year set before us, could that someone be you?
[Rick Ryckeley has been writing stories since 2001. To read more of Rick’s stories, visit his blog: storiesbyrick.wordpress.com.]
