What You Want

I had an English teacher in high school that I adored. The feeling was mutual. She said more than once that if she could have, she would have adopted me. Honestly, as a miserable 17 year-old, I wished that she meant it.

Nearly half my class failed the first exam she gave at our school. She'd spent the fall teaching us the basics essay writing, of critically reading other people's. She taught us a form of shorthand she'd developed for that purpose. She drilled us on it, all of it, mercilessly.

She had a hallmark question, a question that stalked my fingers through undergrad and library school, even stuck with me for a few years after that. She'd scrawl it in big red marker across any argument she felt was unfinished.

SO WHAT

It wasn't even a question, the way she posed it. It was two sharp taps, one on each eyeball.

I've been away from school, from essay writing, for long enough that I can't hear her voice anymore, and the edges of her red marker marks are feathering away.

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It was good to hear what you want. I loved the straight-up compliments and comment, as always, SLM, Mae and Anon III.

Though if my blogging ever includes the use of a poon cam, you can damn well bet it will stop being free.

The question regarding why I'm self-obsessed? Well, I can't quite catch the tone. Could be read pretty mean, could be completely disingenuous. I'll tackle it anyway in the days coming up.

But Anon II, you reminded me of Mrs. Patterson. You were the big red taps on my eyeballs, reminding me of what I already knew.