english is my second language

While at work a couple of months ago, my high school AP English teacher came in to shop.  I walked up to her, excited to tell her about my newly acquired passion for writing.  I haven’t seen her since I graduated high school in 2004 and thought she’d be happy to hear about my venturing into her field of expertise.

After we caught up for a bit, I told her I liked to write now and she smiled a small smile and I told her I was even published in my college’s literary journal.  Not a huge deal but it was something.  A good start.  I might have made a misstep, however, because I said her class helped me enjoy writing and I thought my writing grew while under her guidance.  I even bragged a bit and said I thought I wrote some pretty good essays during the times I had her in 11th and 12th grade.

She smiled again and mentioned my science teacher’s daughter, who was one grade above me.

"Yes, I still remember her essays.  She was one of the best students I ever had."

I didn’t understand why she chose to compliment some random girl who had nothing to do with me but I pressed on and casually asked her if she would like to read some of my writing.  She was retired by this time and so I thought not only would she have the time to read it but I hoped she’d be interested to see how I’ve grown as a writer.

Instead, she let out a sigh.

Here’s the part where you say maybe she’s been busy.  She’s retired from teaching so why would she want to proofread some chubby art failure’s emo rants?  It’s like folding shirts for 8 hours a day and coming home to do laundry.

Well, I didn’t ask her to proofread anything.  It was as if I were offering to let her borrow a book of short stories and essays, something she would hopefully enjoy and not just edit.  Something pleasurable and not a chore.  I just wanted to know if she thought I was a good writer.  Deep down, I still needed that validation.

And she sighed and I felt dismissed.

She did give me her e-mail address, though.  "Now don’t lose it," she said, a tone of irritation in her voice, as if it were this big deal to give me a torn piece of paper with her contact information scrawled on it.

It hurt that she would be so dismissive.  As a teacher, I thought she’d jump at the chance to encourage and nurture my writing.

I always thought it would be nice to get published and become successful and if I were ever interviewed I could look into the camera and say, "I finally got my validation, Mrs. L.  I don’t need your approval anymore.  I made it and you could have been a part of it but you sighed instead."

It reminded me of the time I was in community college, needing validation about my drawing skills.  My art teacher didn’t like me for some reason and didn’t hesitate to tell me I wasn’t talented enough for SCAD.  But I got accepted and got a scholarship.  And I graduated cum laude.  And I realized I didn’t need her validation because my degree was my validation.

But the joke was on me because I ended up working the same job I left to go to college and better myself.  As fate would have it, I saw that art teacher three years later while I worked in the shoe department.  She looked at me and a flicker of recognition brushed across her face.  She remembered who I was and then she realized where I was.  And she smiled this cocky smile so I could see all of her yellow teeth. 

She got her validation.

Yeah, I knew he wouldn’t make it. 

And I had to sell her a pair of shoes and look at her shit-eating grin the whole time.  I felt so low.  As much as I had accomplished, as much as I wanted to prove her wrong and stick it to her, she ended up sticking it to me.  So what if I had a degree from a college she said I wasn’t good enough to attend?  What does an education matter if your peddling pumps?

And so I put away the thoughts of proving my English teacher wrong.  I didn’t want that to blow up in my face like with my art teacher.  But the thought of her sighing haunted me.  All this time later, I can’t help but to keep thinking about it. 

That afternoon, I got off work and went home and took the folded piece of paper out of my pocket.  I looked at her e-mail address written in ballpoint pen across the wrinkled paper.  I sighed.

It went in the trash.