It sounds egotistical, but I never actually wanted to be
smart. Back in the 90s, when everyone still decked themselves in denim coats and shoulder
pads, my teachers would bend around the midriff of their zigzag print dresses
to whisper, as if the shock could be too much to handle, that I was (did I know it) “gifted.” Looking back, the word "gifted" sounds like telling a child that at any moment their
parents could return them for store credit, which was highly likely, since I was a child who liked to stain my mom's expensive white couch with tubs of vanilla ice cream. So, I was gifted. I was "something special," and once every year my school's counselor would take me from my classroom to place me in a concrete-brick box for ten minutes. A room sectioned off with a small table and a couple chairs
across from one another, color indiscernible, everything tinged with the
orange-red of a shotty incandescent bulb. It was in this room that they would
make me read the same paragraph every year and ask me in multiple choice questions about
the domestication of camels, about the history of the Middle East. And I, probably no
more than seven for any of these occurrences, couldn’t help but think that
domestication must was some code word for torture, boxed in the administrator’s eyes, circling my answers, hoping for any sign of approval in her never-budging smile. I never got one, and when I finished, they would take my test, envelope it, and
send me back to class, lost in some crazy, burnt-orange dream.
Improv 2 of Student’s blog – Diamond Forde – Week 2
ReplyDelete“… once every year my school's counselor would take me from my classroom to place me in a concrete-brick box for ten minutes. A room sectioned off with a small table and a couple chairs across from one another, color indiscernible, everything tinged with the orange-red of a shotty incandescent bulb. It was in this room that they would make me read the same paragraph every year and ask me in multiple choice questions about the domestication of camels, about the history of the Middle East. And I, probably no more than seven for any of these occurrences, couldn’t help but think that domestication must was some code word for torture, boxed in the administrator’s eyes, circling my answers, hoping for any sign of approval in her never-budging smile. I never got one, and when I finished, they would take my test, envelope it, and send me back to class, lost in some crazy, burnt-orange dream.
Diamond,
I think the first sentence above would make a strong opening line to a creative non-fiction piece. Immediately I am interested to read on, to find out what that concrete box is, sounds like it will be a punishment which is a nice contrast to what it is in reality, and the fact it only takes place once a year adds to the mystery up front. I think the lead-in I did not include of the original piece, about being gifted etc. can be cut as you will show that in the description of what the administration of the school is asking you to do.
“Shotty” seems too casual a word to use. A question: was it really the same paragraph year after year or similar ones? I wanted more possible questions that could have been on the test as the “domestication of camels” is so interesting, history of Middle East is okay, but a more specific question (even if a slight exaggeration) would be more arresting.
This is very micro, but you’ve already said you are in a box, so maybe the teacher’s eyes could be described a different way, unless the repeat is intentional.
My main question about the future of this piece would be: how it made the speaker feel to be separated out from the group, other than in a dream. It brings back a memory for me about the same age, in 2nd grade when I was asked to help another student with their reading. I became a mini-teacher for the boy, Wagner, an overweight, sweet boy, whose sandy-colored hair was always in his eyes. I felt proud to be his 2nd teacher, but did not know how to corral him as he had the energy of a puppy cocker spaniel, so a tug of the two second-graders began. Long story short: it felt odd to be singled out; I was afraid other classmates would be jealous, but I liked being good at something and getting noticed for it. This is what makes this reader curious. What did the child feel then? Afraid? Isolated? Proud? Bored? Confused? All of the above? I want inside the kid’s head.