My memoir that I had to write for English class....let's just say I loved this project.
Dedicated to: Marcy for keeping me motivated and Grandma Betty for passing down the love of writing
Sprawled out on a towel on the cool (but sometimes itchy), green grass, the warm August sun beating down on my back, I squint as I struggle over a word - precocious - in my latest book, part of the Boxcar Children series. My favorite of the Boxcar Children had always been Jessie, not only because we had practically the same name, but even more because she was the older, more responsible one, just like I was. I loved the freedom that the four kids had, and even though I wasn't able to go off on my own like they were, in the summer, I was able to forget all my worries and go off in an adventure in a book. Those summers were numbered, though. I'm not sure when exactly things changed, but I clearly remember the moment I realized that I should've treasured those days that I once had.
Laying out by the pool on a summer day with a book in hand and a bottle of water sounds very relaxing. However, imagine it being 6:30 AM at the shady Pearl River Swim Club, where it's about 50º in the air, and not much warmer in the water. Wearing a swimsuit three sizes too small, in order to "optimize performance" and shoving a mass of thick, curly hair into a latex swim cap isn't very appealing, either. So you can imagine my discontent when my coach took my book - Speak, by Laurie Halse Anderson - out of my hands and said, "Jessica, let's go. Your race is lining up behind the blocks."
I removed my sweatshirt, my tee shirt, and my flannel pants. I took a sip of water and checked to see that my goggles were on my head. I took my pink index card out from under my bathing suit strap and could clearly see the lines where the suit had dug into my skin. I slipped into my flip-flops and went to line up behind lane six, where I would swim my race in the next few minutes.
"OW!" I exclaimed in shock. I turned around and there was Kirsten with an innocent smile on her face. I reached over to snap her suit back, but she darted away from me towards the starting blocks. Shawn, our coach, pulled us aside and instructed us on how to swim our races. We went through the arm motions and stepped up to the blocks. I was glad that Kirsten would be in my heat, even though she was faster than me, because she was friendly competition.
I had no doubt that I'd come in last place. I always did, but I just accepted it as a fact. When I took that dive into the water, swimming the 100-meter freestyle, I saw that I was actually ahead of someone. I sprinted and kept up fifth place for quite some time. By the fourth and final leg of the race, I was in pain and didn't know how I'd managed to go so fast for those first three laps. My muscles were on fire and the knot in my stomach was so terrible that I thought maybe I was drowning, even though I was technically above the water. After what seemed like forever (though, in reality, it was about a minute and twenty seconds), I touched the wall and struggled to emerge from the cold and dirty pool. Kirsten pulled me up, and once I was out of the water, she informed me that there had been a frog in lane one. I was glad that I wasn't in that lane, but I was even gladder that I had just finished the last race of the season. I rushed to dry off and pull on my pants and sweatshirt as I painstakingly ripped the swim cap off of my head.
"Bye, Shawn," I said, and grabbed my mom and got out of there as fast as I could. I couldn't help but remember that summer that seemed so long ago, when I could just lie outside and relax and not have a care in the world.
Soon after that summer, I entered the ninth grade at the Ramapo Freshman Center. I had the oddest teachers and a really superficial group of friends. Of course, we didn't think we were superficial at all. But we were. We were the girls who tried so hard to be cool that we were dorks. Thankfully, though, I ran into Marcy.
I had looked up to Marcy since I first met her that past summer working at Robin Hill Camp. Not only did I admire how wonderfully she worked with kids and how organized and creative she was, I admired her for her self-confidence, dedication, leadership, and understanding. At twenty-two, a recent college graduate, Marcy was everything I hoped one day to be. She had just graduated from SUNY New Paltz, and proved to me something that I had been denying for a while - that you don't have to go to the best school to have the best education. I don't know if her skills with children were naturally occurring or if she learned them in college, but I was amazed by them.
So naturally, I was ecstatic when I was brought to my room assignment at Spring Valley Head Start where I was to volunteer during my study hall, and Marcy opened the door. I started volunteering every other day, for one period. Soon, I dropped an elective that I didn't like, took study hall instead, and volunteered at Head Start for another period of the day. By the end of the year, I loved the Head Start program so much that I started to volunteer there after school.
I so clearly remember one morning when I was volunteering at Head Start. It was circle time, and Eric refused to participate. Marcy tried to coax him into participating with the group. So did Michelle, another teacher in the classroom. Neither of them, nor any of the teachers' assistants were able to get Eric to join the circle.
Marcy asked me to give it a try. I looked at her like she was crazy, but she whispered to me, "Eric loves you. He constantly talks about you when you leave, and he always asks for you to come and help with his work." I still thought Marcy didn't know what she was talking about, but I went over to Eric and tried to convince him to come and play in the circle with the rest of the class. Finally, I was able to talk him into joining the group. We stood in the circle and sang the Good Morning song. At the end of the song, we sat down and Eric hugged my arm.
Suddenly, I felt something sharp and wet. I looked over and saw that Eric had bit my arm. I went over to rinse it off and started talking to Marcy and Michelle. Apparently, it was a bigger deal than I had thought. They needed to involve the nurse, the program director, and everyone who saw the incident. I felt bad for Eric, who was so overwhelmed.
After everything had died down, I started talking with Marcy, Michelle and Jill, the director of Head Start. They asked me if I planned on teaching. I said yes, I had wanted to be a teacher for as long as I can remember. But this was the first time that I ever admitted it. Before that, whenever someone asked me what I wanted to be, I'd say that I didn't know. Maybe a lawyer, I'd say, because I'm good at arguing.
y working in the classroom with Marcy, I learned so much. Not only did I learn about taking care of children, but I also learned valuable life lessons that may seem stupid but actually have made a large impact on my life. She taught me that it's better to be yourself than to try to be like anyone else. She also helped me to realize that if I want to be a teacher, I shouldn't let anyone shoot it down. People told her that she was too smart to be a teacher, that she could do so much more, but she knew what she truly wanted to do. I've adopted a lot of her attitudes and have become so much more of a person because of that experience in 9th grade.
Ninth grade was mind-boggling. I retained a plethora of information and made decisions that, believe it or not, would change my life forever. As excited as I was to complete high school and college in the years ahead of me, I felt like there was a bungee cord, with one end attached to my stomach and the other to the post of my headboard on my bed. The farther I'd stray from my bed, the tighter the bungee cord would pull. Sometime, I'd come rebounding back. It was times like those when I missed that summer that seemed so long ago, when I could just lie outside and relax and not have a care in the world.
Sometimes, I feel like the reason I have my future career set in stone is because I am terrified of uncertainty. I don't like going to parties when I don't know what time they'll be ending. I don't like walks in the woods because you never know what you'll find. And I didn't want my future to be like a walk in the woods without any sign of ending, because I would more than likely go crazy. But I know that I really want to be a teacher because I love children.
When someone asks the question, "Jessica, what do you want to be when you grow up?" I am quick to respond, "A special ed teacher." Although this is the truth, I do take a glance around the room, past the pairs of judgmental eyes, and think about saying that I want to be a lawyer, a doctor, a psychologist. But then I think of all I've learned from Marcy and that teaching is not something to be ashamed to want to do. It's not something that one should choose because they are forced to.
As I write this memoir, I get butterflies in my stomach and maybe even tears in my eyes. I wonder if real writers feel the same way, and I wonder if I will ever be a real writer. Although I have said many times throughout this paper that I want to be a teacher, my goal is to have one book published before I die. I wonder if anything I write will ever be anything compared to the writings of my favorite authors like Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf, and Marya Hornbacher. I wonder too much, and enter, yet again, another realm of uncertainty. I go back to my ways of worrying about what people think. And I push the thoughts away.
I've analyzed The Bell Jar over and over again for the past two years. You are welcome to call me crazy. Crazy in whatever sense seems fit. But I've theorized that we are all born with bell jars over us. By the time we are two or three, most of us have pushed them far enough off of us to function on our own and not be tied down. However, what goes up must come down, and at some point in everyone's life, the bell jar descends. The challenge that we have to face is not preventing the bell jar's descent, but rather gaining the strength to lift the bell jar off of ourselves, feeling that freedom once again. My freedom was in that summer that seemed so long ago, when I could just lie outside and relax and not have a care in the world.