I felt venerable and naked standing alone next to my ninth-grade English teacher's desk. She’d just handed back our final papers for the quarter which would determine what level English class we’d be placed in for the tenth grade. While everyone was filing out at the end of class she called for me to come over and talk to her. I felt my face flush with embarrassment as I’d just received a C+ on said paper and was expecting her to request a rewrite or worse; that she was moving me down a level for next year. My parents were going to be pissed. I cared about my grades but when you go to a high school that’s known for its math and science department, it’s hard to focus on anything else. Just last month, the algebra midterm that had been passed back had a lower average than my teacher would have liked. The kids all joked and begged our teacher to tell them what the lowest score was to help them cope with theirs. I held my test to my chest like a cursed lottery ticket, hoping no one would see that it matched the number she’d called out - 68. 

           Mrs. Bruzentski sat holding her hands together and looked up at me through her glossy plastic ‘cheaters’ from Rite Aid. She went on to tell me about how uninterested I always seemed in class, how little I’d been participating, and how disappointed she was in my paper. I didn’t really know why she was telling me all of this since I already knew what she was silently asking. What happened? Why aren’t you trying anymore? I stared at a point on her desk so as to keep from showing too much emotion. Mrs. Bruzentski let out a stressed sigh, a quick release of air but tight so that there’s still some remaining in your chest cavity. 

           “I don’t think you’re a bad writer, I think you’re bored.” She said in a matter-of-fact way.

            Huh? Bored? 

Who the hell wouldn’t be bored? I’d been forced to read untranslated Shakespeare, The Odessy, and re-read the same four ancient greek mythology stories for the fourth time since the fifth grade. I had to recite scene 2 of Capulet’s Orchard from Romeo and Juliet by memory in front of the entire class for a project. If I’d wanted to be a cringe-worthy high school drama addict I’d have joined drama club on my own recognizance. I wasn’t bored, I hated English. 

It wasn’t always that way though. When I was seven I became obsessed with R.L. Steins Goosebumps series. I would sneak flashlights into my bedroom to read under the covers. A corner in my childhood bedroom contained a fortress that was comprised of a towering bookshelf crammed with books and a sheet I tied to the post on my dresser. Every gift from friends and family was a Barnes & Noble gift card. I’d beg my mom to go until she’d finally give in and drive the 20 odd minutes it took to get there. I’d snag whatever covers looked the coolest. I’d stopped buying children's section books at age ten, as the flimsy paperbacks wouldn’t survive the car ride. My mom was almost frustrated by it. “There’s no way you already finished this, Shayla…”, then she’d rustel to a page, “what does this character do when ____ happened?”. I’d answer and she’d shake her head. The same woman who shook her head when I told her I was majoring in English. “What are you even going to do with that?” she asked. 

            Honestly, mom, that’s what I was thinking when I got stuck in tenth-grade honors English.

            Being put in a higher-level English class was one of my worst fears. Conceptual readings, larger papers that would be picked apart, and less time for me to flunk…I mean, focus on chemistry. I lied before, I didn’t hate English, I just didn’t have time for it anymore. I was forcing myself out of the arts and into STEM, burning out in the process. I felt as though I had to choose between success and happiness. Except I was forced into making that choice at thirteen rather than in my thirties. 

            Now I was screwed, my plan hadn't worked. Mrs. Bruzentski was set on putting me in honors English and my parents just saw it as an academic achievement, though they still questioned why I wasn’t being pushed into accelerated math. My first thought entering the tenth-grade classroom was, Oh great, because Mrs. Rubenstein was old. She was five foot nothing, her hair was dyed jet black, and she never bothered to learn my name; I didn’t mind. Though I do sometimes wonder what name she used when I asked her to write my letter of recommendation. Her books spines had as many cracks as they did pages. The walls should have been considered a fire hazard with the number of papers hanging from cork boards and with all of the copies of the texts she had for us students to borrow stacked on every raised surface. Coffee-stained papers piled along the sides of her desk. During class, she would write sprawling cursive notes on the board and then toddle to the front of her desk where she’d have to rummage around the papers to find the one she wanted, push away the excess, and hop onto the edge that she’d barely cleared. She’d always cross her feet and swing them while she talked; I liked that. Mrs. Rubenstien refused to take ‘I don’t know,’ for an answer. She’d reply with, “What, you didn’t read it?”, “Make something up then”, “Take a guess or take a walk”. 

            There was something familiar about her class that made me read a little longer; a little closer. Maybe it was the resemblance between her classroom and my childhood book nook or the way she held herself with such confidence, there was something therapeutic that made me cling to each word Mrs. Rubenstien spoke. Until it hit me - I understood what she was saying. My ideas were right. I was right. 

            I got a B+ in Mrs. Rubenstien’s class and I’m still happy about it. If I were to take it now, I cannot honestly say if I’d do any better. Mrs. Rubenstein didn’t grade with a rubric - she had one - but she had her own expectations for each student. She would somehow know what you were capable of and tell you to do it. She forced us to use voice, add personality, and support ideas through whatever we experienced while reading. I remember being praised for my knowledge of the term “Silver fox” - the rest of my classmates seemed disgusted I knew what that meant. Mrs. Rubenstien’s approval outweighed the sideways glances from the platinum blonde, gum-monching, “A+” students around me; they were smart but they didn’t care for the subject like I did. I felt happier here. I felt acknowledged in this class. I felt like for the first time I was recognizing themes others couldn’t see. Thoughts began to flow naturally, and I was able to visualize the words on a page: stringing ideas together from chapter to chapter. 

            I’d always struggled to find my “calling” growing up. Those around me seemed to already know what they wanted to be from a young age. While what seemed like everybody continued to succeed in growth and self-discovery, I felt left behind. I was boxed off but able to comprehend what I was missing out on. I’d been trying to block out what I enjoyed for the approval of others: approval that I didn’t truly care about. The validation I found in my English classes has been the only approval I’ve needed to feel successful. The best way I can describe my gravitation towards English was less of a door opening for me and more of me finally pushing that glass paneling that separated me from the world; the way it shattered was beautiful.