I Finally Listened

My first semester of my freshman year of college, I did not like my English class. The assignments didn't bother me. We would write very basic research papers on fairly simple topics. I mean, it was the intro English course after all. But of course, you can't have your cake and eat it, too. The assignments were fine. The professor? Well... I wasn't crazy about him.

His grading wasn't toughest I've ever had (don't get me started on the professor that graded everything out of three points), but it seemed a bit much for this class. Like I said, this is the very first English course you take. The one that's required for everyone regardless of major. I felt like he could have taken it down a notch. Meeting the requirements of the assignment meant you got a C or a B. You had to exceed his expectations in order to get an A. I can't remember exactly, but I believe I got mostly As and some Bs. I don't mean to toot my own horn here, but those were my grades as someone who was a straight-A student. So I really felt for everyone else in that class.

My least favorite part of his teaching style was how he would review our research papers in class. He would pick a few to show to the whole class as examples. He would put them up on the projector, point out things the student did well, and of course, point out things the student did not do so well. Thankfully, he would censor the name so no one would know whose it was, but even so, whenever I would see mine up there, I got annoyed. He seemed to always use mine. I desperately wished he would pick someone else for a change. Didn't he want others to get the class's feedback as well?

I got through it. I don't remember what the topic of our final paper was, but I do remember getting it done as soon as possible just to get it over with. At this point, we only had a few more classes left in the semester, and because we had already started these final papers, we didn't really have anything to go over in class. I'll never know why, but this professor decided to have us do some creative writing as a quick in-class assignment during one of these last sessions.

"Just write a scene about anything," he said.

I was so sick of writing for this guy that I didn't even get excited at the prospect of finally being able to do some creative writing again. The last time I had written anything creatively was my junior year of high school when I was 16. I was 18 when I started college.

Anything, huh? I lazily wrote about a woman who was late for work but decided to take a detour on her walk through a forest that led to a creek. I truly thought it was awful as I wrote it. But I didn't care. I just needed something to turn in. Class ended, and I forgot all about it as soon as I slipped my paper on his desk.

Next class session, he said he had them graded and was going to hand them back. Wait, that was for a grade? I would have tried harder had I known that. Oh, well.

"Actually I think I'll read this one to you. We won't go over it; I just want you to hear it."

It's mine, isn't it? It's definitely mine.

Surprise, surprise. It was mine.

I stared at my desk as he read it, trying not to give anything away on my face that would let anyone else know I wrote it.

He finished reading, paused, and then said, "This is really good. This person really knows how to write."

He went on and said a few more things, but I didn't hear any of it. Did he just say he liked it? Did he say I know how to write? He started passing the papers back, making sure to shuffle mine back in the stack so no one would be able to tell mine was the one he had read. The paper eventually slid in front of me, and I see a 100% written in red in the corner.

And then you know what I did? I stuck it in my folder and never thought about it again. And I don't exactly know why. Maybe part of it was because I didn't like the attention. I wasn't a huge fan of the fact he read mine and only mine aloud. Maybe it was because I had subconsciously decided to stop writing two years prior. I mentioned the last time I had written anything was when I was 16. That final time wasn't a good experience.

I think I unknowingly put my love for writing on a shelf and left it to collect dust. And when someone (my professor) tried blowing the dust off, I just shoved it back where it was.

When I look back on my journey as a writer, I almost always forget about this incident. I look back on it fondly now, but I don't really have any words of wisdom as to how it fits into my story and what can be learned from it.

All I can say is I now know what a high compliment that was. And I think somehow along the way without even knowing it, I finally took it to heart.