Cora Dickson
EN201 - creative writing
Boston University
Fall 1988

I once had an English teacher in high school who might be described as "memorable." Ms. "P," as I will call her, was a short, slim-bodied woman with thin brown hair who appeared completely harmless to anyone on first impression. By the end of the year, however, I could almost picture her as the Evil Being, with her snakelike glide through the halls and her haughty manner as if to say, "Yes, I am the one who terrifies students daily by my mere presence." Her sneer of contempt for worried college-bound juniors was always present on her lips as she stood by the classroom door with her coffee in hand, waiting to catch the doomed souls of the tardy students.

Ms. P had the rare ability to command her students' absolute hatred, and at the same time their complete respect and awe. Her combination of ruthless essay grading and spellbinding lecture style made her one of the favorite topics of conversation at any gathering place of two or more of her students. I can remember sitting in Pizza Hut, discussing with fervor over a dish of Deep Pan the latest travesty of justice bestowed upon my Huckleberry Finn thesis. And the others at my table were equally armed with their own horror stories.

Because I had always been an "A" student in English, you can imagine the look of shock on my face when I received a "C-" on my first essay. But when I tried to approach her, it was useless -- to her, students who sought help were merely whining about their grades. Like a fool, I tried again and again to discuss my papers, which only resulted in frustration and tears streaming down my face, which in turn produced even more disgust on her part towards me. At that point, it became hopeless to try to obtain her sympathy, let alone a gentle word of advice. Or any advice, for that matter, for she was completely turned off. I was not the only person to react tot his stonewalling -- many a time had I seen a flustered or crying student leave her room after a similar session.

To watch Ms. P grade our essays was a frightening spectacle. She could be reading anyone's paper -- probably yours -- then suddenly stop with a frown and reread a section. Then she would run her fingers through her thin hair with exasperation, circle the section (sometimes an entire page), and write a nasty comment while gritting her teeth violently. Often she would bear down so hard that her pencil would leave indentations on the other side of the page. Then she would scribble a D- or E on the front page with a flourish, and move on to the next victim's paper.

Ms. P's quiet wrath was one of her scariest qualities. And yet, to gain her equally quiet, condescending approval was like a cherished prize -- though privately so, because to make it publicly known would attract jealousy and hatred, as if you were Ms. P herself; one of "her kind." Most of the time, I felt that my "A" papers were undeserved gifts (which they probably were), or that I had somehow betrayed myself and my peers by learning how to please her. It was a strange feeling when she approached me in the hall one day the next year to compliment me on an AP English essay which my teacher had shown her. I was torn between pleasure and horror -- not to mention irony, since I had finally measured up to her standards by not being in her class.

I suppose that the lesson I learned in her English class was one of humility, although it was a very hard-learned one indeed. It may have been the first time my essays were torn apart by a teacher, but it won't be the last. In a way, I am grateful that she made me work harder, even if it was just to spite her. She will probably remain one of the legends at my high school for many years to come -- as long as she continues to terrify students daily with her mere presence.