This year, I decided to stray from the normal character analysis I do 1st term. Actually, I decided to stray from the whole formalized essay all together, and instead, I allowed my students do a creative writing piece, written in a mosaic-type format, similar to that of The House on Mango Street. As an English teacher who has focused primarily on formal informational/analytical type writing, this was a difficult shift. I have never taught creative writing before! I had to let go of control. I had to let go of formality. Heck, I even had to let go of proper grammar and sentence structure.
However, I am so glad I did it. I was absolutely blown away with what my students produced. I have always thought of my students as people first and I try and remember that my class is only a portion of their very complex lives. But, reading these gave me an even better sense of who they are. It was like looking through a camera lens and being able to see snapshots of each of their lives. Writing these showed a lot of vulnerability. Many students opened up to me (and their peers) and trusted us with some pretty deep stuff.
(For more information on the assignment, go here )
They were so good, in fact, that I asked a few of them if I could share their writing so that you all could have the same privilege I have had in reading these. Not all of them said yes, but some did. I promised they would remain anonymous. Here are a three different students' pieces:
Baby Rattlers
Mommy doesn’t sleep. I always sleep near her, and she doesn’t sleep. My rest is bombarded by her midnight missions. She prances across the carpet. A confused slur of urgency. I am sensitive to her movements. Every impression on the floor stirs me. Mommy always goes to find her purse. Why does she need her purse at this hour? She is not leaving. She pinky swore she wouldn't leave. Sometimes I think she is spitting all her dreams into the crevices of that purse, because she never sleeps, they must go somewhere. She has to release all of the unconscious energy somehow.
I hear her shaking baby rattlers. I don’t understand. I hear her drop a tic tac on the kitchen floor. Mommy always has candy with her. She keeps candy in orange bottles that my adolescent fingers cannot open. She doesn’t share. Sometimes I know she is eating too much candy because she vomits. I know she tries not to wake me. Mommy thinks I sleep through the rattlers.
She makes her way back. And every step is deafening to me. I know she is not asleep, but her mind is in another place. Sometimes her eyes are closed. I know mommy always tries to be quiet, she does. But her words are slippery, and I don’t know who she’s talking to. No one else seems to hear her at night. Only me, I am alone. I try to ignore what she does at night, but I can’t pry my brown eyes that look like hers, off of mommy. She sits up all night and swats at the air. Mommy is silly. I think she sees fruit flies behind her eyelids. I think she hears voices that speak in a language that only she comprehends.
If Scales Could Speak
“Age is just a number,” said someone who feels old. “I’m vertically challenged.” Said someone who feels too short. However, if a scale could speak, the numbers would be a foreign language, translated to say too much, or too little. Scales are like the new exchange student, and their interpreters are peoples doctors and nurses. Their job, is to take whatever the scale said and make us understand it. Sometimes they even have to take whatever was said bluntly, and make it socially acceptable. Doctors do it all the time. Lay down the facts, sprinkle on a sugar coat, and the cycle repeats. “Well, your weight is above the range it should be for your age so we’ll put you on this”. But what we all here is, "You're fat, let's try to make you normal." As if a bottle of pills can repair the damage that’s already been done by staring at the numbers between my feet. So like a typical “moody” teen girl. I just put in my headphones so that I can listen to a language that I actually understand: Music.
Sunday
This time it was four months, and we went out again. It was Sunday. Early evening. You look beautiful, he says looking at the braided updo my mother helped me with and looking at the earrings he bought me the previous day and looking at my eyes. The green eyes that he tells me he loves. We walked to the restaurant. He held the door for me. Holding hands and having an actual conversation. Why did we ever worry about not being normal? Why did I always reject him? Why did I chase around the other boys who only cared about looks and popularity? Why did I think I was lonely and that nobody loved me, when there had always been someone there? The boy in the background who was rejected by the girl of his dreams time after time, but still waited for her. On that one Sunday evening, I realized that he was perfect. He was perfect for me, not only for looks or for a relationship status, but for friendship. I realized, this is my best friend. I realized, I love him.
