Emma Gillaspie
The Ideological Freight that Must be Borne
My stomach clenched at the word coming out of my third grade teacher’s mouth. “Your poems have to be done by the end of the day so we can decorate our posters tomorrow.” Mrs. Lee announced. I had already been worried but now my brain kicked into panic mode. How was I supposed to come up with an entire poem in a day? When Mrs. Lee had first said that my first ever poetry unit would end with writing poems, putting them on posters, and putting those posters around the school, I was filled with happiness. I had seen those posters last year and was ecstatic that it was now my turn. But now, all I could feel was worry. My first poem attempt had been awful and now I had no idea what to write about.
I stared at the spotted grey walls of the portable classroom and combed my brain for something, anything, to write about. Out of the back of my mind an instance slowly arose. It was something that had happened in class yesterday. I remembered being upset when everyone else got to listen to Mrs. Lee read while I had to finish up my cursive practice from the lesson right before. The book she was reading was the first autobiography that I had ever read. When she got to the part where the author described how she brainstormed I remembered thinking: why would anyone willingly write 5 pages a day? I didn’t like it when Mrs. Lee made us write, why would I ever do it willingly? I looked over my shoulder at the analog clock on the wall and another bolt of panic coursed through me, I was running out of time! Well, since it was the only thing I could think of it would have to do. I turned my writing journal to a new page, stared at the red lined paper, picked up my No.2 pencil and wrote:
The lights were off and the room was quiet
And she
Was reading 5 Pages a Day: A Writer’s Journey
And I
Was sitting
And finishing up my cursive
“Everyone put away their journals, it’s time to move on to math.” Whew, just in time. It wasn’t great but it was done. At least Mrs. Lee hadn’t pick one of the types of poems she had taught us and made us use that type because that would have been even harder to do. I looked at my sticker-covered journal and thought that even though I had discovered that I kind of liked poetry, I was glad to be done with the latest in a long line of writing projects Mrs. Lee had made us do. And as I put my journal away, I wondered how despite all the writing she made me do, Mrs. Lee was still one of my favorite teachers.