To My Third Grade Teacher

How My Childhood 15 Minutes of Fame Influenced My Degree

It’s not unfair to say I wrote more consistently in elementary school than I do now at twenty-four.

My journals were littered with misused words, grammatical errors, and plot holes. Still, I filled dozens of pages with stories, poetry, and ‘books.’ I won my elementary school’s poetry competition (this was my peak, I think) and though I can’t remember all of my stories from the time (nor can I find the journals), the ones I do remember are remembered fondly.

One ‘book series’ in particular was called Rosie & the Typewriter about a young girl, also in third grade, who found a magical typewriter at an antique shop. Everything she wrote on the device happened in real life (can you tell I loved Jumanji?). Rosie mainly used her newfound power to prank her older teen brother, Jimmy, and make up fake boyfriends to show off at school. I wrote three Rosie ‘books’ with mean-girl villains, quirky side plots, and a main character that was everything I wanted to be: confident, smart, and red-haired.

I bragged to some of my classmates that I ‘wrote books’ and thus was an author. Surprisingly, nobody kicked my ass. My parents have been long-time supporters of my writing and encouraged me to share my work with my teacher. I told Mrs. C, a calm woman with curly red hair, about wanting to be an author. I remember her smiling while she read my messy, unorganized work and leaning down to say, “Do you want to read this to the class?”

Wow, I thought. I must be a genius!

A genius I was not. But Mrs. C saw my passion and decided to reward it. Every Wednesday we had read-aloud time where Mrs. C read a chapter or two from either Esperanza Rising or The Indian in the Cupboard, two books I remember loving, while the class doodled on white printer paper. For one month, she gave the spotlight to me. I was a pretty socially brave child; I didn’t mind public speaking or being the center of attention, at least not until middle school. I remember feeling so full of excitement that first Wednesday that I ran out of my parent’s old car, gave a rushed “Goodbye!” and ran early to Mrs. C’s room. The classroom was long and rectangular with square cubbies by the front door. I see it clearly even now. I put my Hannah Montana backpack away and looked at the clock every five minutes until 1 pm when I got to read.

There were a few classmates whose opinions I was scared of. One of them was blonde, wore pink, and had a ‘boyfriend,’ so in my third-grade mind, she was the one I needed to impress.

I started to read.

I looked up occasionally to see my classmate’s reactions to various plot points; Rosie stealing the typewriter, the first time she used it, and her brother’s antics. I got laughter. I got gasps. The blonde girl even seemed to react positively. This was my big break. For the first (and possibly only) time in my life, I felt like people cared about the stories I told. When I finished reading on that first day, a few kids came up to me at recess and told me they liked writing, too.

I finished reading all of Rosie’s ‘books’ by the third Wednesday—they were more akin to short stories, but to a nine-year-old, 20 pages is a lot of hard work, okay!—and then everyone moved on. My 15 Minutes of Fame was over.

Mrs. C’s support of my silly, childish stories moved something inside me. Suddenly, my stories weren’t just in my head or in my journals anymore. They were things that could not only be told but enjoyed. I wanted to be an author. I wanted to be an author. I wrote several more works over the years (a book about a boy and his dog; a fairy tale about an ogre princess; and a story of a pioneer girl during the Gold Rush) all inspired by whatever I was reading or learning at the time. They all live somewhere inside old notebooks I hope to find one day.

Mrs. C had a kind, freckled face. She spoke with certainty and knew how to keep us in line without sowing fear. She was funny, and when she laughed, her cheeks would light up pink. She knew how to make everyone feel included. Mrs. C also offered to edit my Rosie books, though when she returned my journal, the red ink circling, crossing out, and rewriting my grammatical errors took more room than my original words. She was so real for that.

My parents weren’t any less encouraging. I come from a family of creatives—right now, my mom is probably putting gluing together another junk journal (pictured below). Throughout the years they’d listen to me brainstorm for hours without judgment, ask me plot-related questions to keep me on my toes, and offer constructive advice on everything I shared. My mom, whose own mother insulted her passion for writing, poured all of that desire into me. My father did much the same. (Lov u mama, lov u dad <3)

mama

The neighborhood kids in third grade liked my stories, too. We would all play wallball in my backyard while I improvised a story aloud. One of their favorites was about a stable horse that learned he was actually a pegasus and the heir to a kingdom of pegasi in the clouds. This story had several installments. I would never have shared that part of myself with them if it weren't for Mrs C.

I retreated into my shell as I grew older. Hobbies like writing aren’t cool when you’re not eight. I remember one gloomy afternoon in seventh grade when my English teacher had everyone do a short story free-write. At the end of class, we could choose to read our stories aloud. Everyone was too scared until someone took the plunge, and soon, everyone wanted to read. The mood in the room lightened. We didn’t have time for everyone so my teacher asked for a show of hands on who wanted to share their story tomorrow. I, as well as seven other students, raised our hands. I went home excited to share. The next day, we started with the lesson as normal. I raised my hand and asked if we were still allowed to share our stories. My teacher had forgotten, thanked me for reminding him, and asked me to kick us off. I read my story to a dead-silent classroom. It had a comedic ending that got my teacher to exhale out his nose but otherwise went uncared for.

Nobody else wanted to go after that. The energy from yesterday was gone and I looked like some asshole that stopped class to share her mediocre flash fiction. I was mortified.

In remembering those embarrassing (cringey, keeps-you-up-at-night, horrific, gruesome, makes-me-want-to-bash-my-head-in-with-a-bat etc.) moments, I try to think about what Mrs. C would have said or what my old wallball friends would have thought. I like to think they would have been proud of me for trying.

I ran into Mrs. C several times after I switched schools in fourth grade. Her son went to my new school and it was strange to see my old teacher on a new campus, but it was a strangeness I welcomed. We would always say hi or stop to chat for a minute or two.

After I left for middle school, I never saw her again.

I entered college a zoology major. I volunteered at the local zoo throughout high school and thought animal work was something I could enjoy and make me money. But my love for writing found its way through the cracks. It started with adding a creative writing minor. Then I founded my university’s creative writing club. My zoology grades had always been subpar but I thrived in my English classes (I’m a certified yapper).

When I approached my roommates about my desire to switch, they said, “Well, yeah.”

I graduated with my B.A. in English and a minor in literary publishing. I just applied for my M.S. Fingers crossed.

I try to keep Mrs. C’s energy going for others. I served as the creative writing club president for two years; established a post-grad writing group; encouraged my club members at open mic nights; proofread and edited my friends’ work; and tried to encourage everyone, even non-writers, to write. I believe everyone has a story to tell. There are a plethora of teachers and professors on Substack and I want them all to know the little things never go unnoticed. I would never have finally committed to pursuing my dream, or even starting a Substack, if it weren’t for people like Mrs. C, my parents, or friends. I haven’t published any books, but am working towards that goal every day.

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To Mrs. C:

Thank you for seeing my potential. Thank you for encouraging me. Thank you for editing my messy drafts, for giving me a chance, and for watching me grow. I still remember your face, though mine has morphed into someone you’ve never met. I still remember you reading to us, guiding us, and caring for us. I hope you’re still teaching. I hope one day I can share some real work with you, something I’m proud of. Everyone smiles when I tell them what you did for me. It’s something you can’t not smile at.

Thank you.

Graduation photos taken by Colwyn Delaney.