English 101
In the class that I am taking this summer, English 101, Mrs. Pilachowski is having each of us keep a journal, which we will turn into her at the end of the class. I thought that I'd share what I am writing in this journal every now and then. This particular entry that I'm about to share is what I wrote yesterday, when she prompted us to start out with, 'The first time...', and asked us to take it from there in whatever direction we wished.
................................................
June 2, 2003
The first time I saw him, he wasn't much more than another student, in my eyes. He was merely a high school boy, like any other. The second time I saw him, he sat down behind me in my ecology class on the first day of my senior year of high school. Time after time I saw him take that seat behind me, until one day he spoke from behind me. More than that, it was me whom he spoke to.
Five years down the road, after loving him for so long, it is heart breaking to feel forced to never see him again. Yet, I see him that first, second, third, and every other time that I saw him, over and over again in my mind, despite that. Perhaps I will always see him.
................................................
The most difficult part of this class is that she encourages us to share what we write in this journal. When I write, I pour a great deal of emotion and personal feelings into it, and I have a difficulty in just reading it to fifteen strangers. Meanwhile, I just keep my hands in my lap, stay very still, and try not to attract her attention, so that she will not ask me to share, in noticing that I have not, yet. ;)
I really like my teacher quite a bit, though. She has an inviting presence about her, warm, encouraging, open, and completely good-willed. She's rather funny, too, though I seem to be one of two people in the class that laughs in response to her jokes. Perhaps the three of us share a misunderstood humor (though I think it may merely be because the rest of the class seems quite unimaginative and lifeless, and thus incapable of laughter)? I am really enjoying the class so far, and I think that it is going to be a wonderful start to my time in college. :)
Here is something that I wrote yesterday, when she asked us to give her a sample of our writing abilities:
................................................
I have never been good at being open. When I say that, I mean that I am not good at placing myself before others to be judged, or even understood. But where I find difficulty in speaking to others about what is on my mind and my opinions, and what my heart feels, there is a complete comfort in being able to write about it anonymously, knowing even that many may read it.
I know, ofcourse, that I have low self-esteem, and perhaps that is why I compulsively feel that people will see what I have to write differently than they would if they knew it was from my mind that it came. I am working on my self-esteem. But, I have always felt the need to write. It is my vice. It is the cure for many things in my life. It is my salvation at some points. It is a means to speak my mind, and feel safe in doing so.
As you read this, I feel secure in knowing that you will, though I could never bring myself to say to someone that I love to write and it makes me happier than I would be without it. I'm afraid that I would be told that it is meaningless. I'm terrified that someone will say that it is pointless to try, because my words have no impact on anyone, in any way.
The fact remains that, in writing how I feel, my words do have an impact on someone, no matter what anyone else has to say about it. Every word that I write has an impact on myself, whether it be by releaving myself of what weighs on my mind, or telling a piece of paper that my heart is hurting, or even ranting and raving about an injustice in the world. Whatever it may be that my pen puts to paper, or my fingers type into a keyboard, it means something to me.
That is why I write. Somehow, that comfort makes it easier to share with others. Every word on that paper is who I am, not what others may or may not assume me to be. It has no face. It has no name. All it has to offer is one thing that can not be dismissed at first glance, and that is the real person that I am.
................................................
I saved it to a disk and brought it home with me, and then I showed it to my father, who pointed out that I use the word 'that' far too much, and I think that I agree. Go ahead, go back through it, and take notice of the excessiveness. I know I've developed a compulsive obsession with it now, and fear I may get my paper back with every single excessive 'that' circled with bright red ink.
(note: Alley's monday topic delayed due to senility, forgetting what it was that Alley asked me to write about in the first place.)
................................................
June 2, 2003
The first time I saw him, he wasn't much more than another student, in my eyes. He was merely a high school boy, like any other. The second time I saw him, he sat down behind me in my ecology class on the first day of my senior year of high school. Time after time I saw him take that seat behind me, until one day he spoke from behind me. More than that, it was me whom he spoke to.
Five years down the road, after loving him for so long, it is heart breaking to feel forced to never see him again. Yet, I see him that first, second, third, and every other time that I saw him, over and over again in my mind, despite that. Perhaps I will always see him.
................................................
The most difficult part of this class is that she encourages us to share what we write in this journal. When I write, I pour a great deal of emotion and personal feelings into it, and I have a difficulty in just reading it to fifteen strangers. Meanwhile, I just keep my hands in my lap, stay very still, and try not to attract her attention, so that she will not ask me to share, in noticing that I have not, yet. ;)
I really like my teacher quite a bit, though. She has an inviting presence about her, warm, encouraging, open, and completely good-willed. She's rather funny, too, though I seem to be one of two people in the class that laughs in response to her jokes. Perhaps the three of us share a misunderstood humor (though I think it may merely be because the rest of the class seems quite unimaginative and lifeless, and thus incapable of laughter)? I am really enjoying the class so far, and I think that it is going to be a wonderful start to my time in college. :)
Here is something that I wrote yesterday, when she asked us to give her a sample of our writing abilities:
................................................
I have never been good at being open. When I say that, I mean that I am not good at placing myself before others to be judged, or even understood. But where I find difficulty in speaking to others about what is on my mind and my opinions, and what my heart feels, there is a complete comfort in being able to write about it anonymously, knowing even that many may read it.
I know, ofcourse, that I have low self-esteem, and perhaps that is why I compulsively feel that people will see what I have to write differently than they would if they knew it was from my mind that it came. I am working on my self-esteem. But, I have always felt the need to write. It is my vice. It is the cure for many things in my life. It is my salvation at some points. It is a means to speak my mind, and feel safe in doing so.
As you read this, I feel secure in knowing that you will, though I could never bring myself to say to someone that I love to write and it makes me happier than I would be without it. I'm afraid that I would be told that it is meaningless. I'm terrified that someone will say that it is pointless to try, because my words have no impact on anyone, in any way.
The fact remains that, in writing how I feel, my words do have an impact on someone, no matter what anyone else has to say about it. Every word that I write has an impact on myself, whether it be by releaving myself of what weighs on my mind, or telling a piece of paper that my heart is hurting, or even ranting and raving about an injustice in the world. Whatever it may be that my pen puts to paper, or my fingers type into a keyboard, it means something to me.
That is why I write. Somehow, that comfort makes it easier to share with others. Every word on that paper is who I am, not what others may or may not assume me to be. It has no face. It has no name. All it has to offer is one thing that can not be dismissed at first glance, and that is the real person that I am.
................................................
I saved it to a disk and brought it home with me, and then I showed it to my father, who pointed out that I use the word 'that' far too much, and I think that I agree. Go ahead, go back through it, and take notice of the excessiveness. I know I've developed a compulsive obsession with it now, and fear I may get my paper back with every single excessive 'that' circled with bright red ink.
(note: Alley's monday topic delayed due to senility, forgetting what it was that Alley asked me to write about in the first place.)