Donuts, Words, and I

It's encouraged for children to crave ice cream, new comics, or maybe an “older” book, Crayola crayons to draw with, or spaghetti for dinner. It may not be so encouraged for a child to crave a teacher's validation. To crave it so intensely a weak response, missing smile, or stoic stare will ruin their day. That was me. I observed teachers as intensely as a doctor observes a heartbeat. 

The first time a teacher yelled at me, I was in fifth grade on a field trip. I had gone back to get a new donut because mine had fingerprints in the glazing, and my friends had dared me to ask for another one. As I skipped back to my table, fresh donut in hand, my English teacher intercepted me. Before I could awe—as I usually did—at her fresh manicure or ironed blazer, she erupted into ardent upbraiding. 

In fact, her red hair was starting to resemble Satan's wrath. She thought I had been rude, that I was making fun of the server behind the counter. Shame reddened my cheeks; my donut shook on its plate. As an English teacher, she knew how to paint a picture with words. That day, she chose to paint a portrait of me that emphasized all my weaknesses. Every new brushstroke eroded my hopes of her liking me. 

When her reprimand began to reach its end, I realized that I had forgotten to breathe. I opened my mouth to let out a sigh, but she yelled at me again, thinking I was about to talk back to her. Another misunderstanding had caused her view of me to sour.

I still remember how my legs, hands, and arms shook as I walked back to my table. Tears cascading. Friends worried. I remember feeling betrayed. By what, I'm not sure. Perhaps, I felt like my actions had betrayed myself as a person—the one I wished my teacher could see. Mostly, I felt betrayed by her. Shouldn't she be able to regard the situation with more of an open mind? Shouldn't she know me better? 

My embarrassment was also laced with jealousy. I realized that the other top English students from my class could now push ahead, untainted by moments of scolding and disappointment. 

My teacher had acted on her instinctive feelings. Someone (the server) had ostensibly been humiliated by a little girl. A noble action, to come to his rescue, but she was short-sighted in acknowledging the power she wielded. True, it may have been a power I magnified too much, allowing her words to carry a disproportionate weight. 

I truly just craved to be understood. To be appreciated as the person I believed I was. Writers, you may resonate with this, but writing is, to me, a conduit for presenting myself. With words, I am palatable, easily digestible, and slightly up for interpretation. I control what, and how much, of myself is injected into paper. And, I can't complain if someone gets a skewed understanding: it is art, after all.