Mrs. Chakin, my 4th grade teacher, tall and stoic like Lincoln, was known as the bread lady. Every year she taught her students how to make bread from scratch. It was the only time we were able to go into the lunchroom kitchen. The fourth graders from other classes thought we were lucky. Although that may have been a highlight for most, I remember Mrs. Chakin because she helped me to channel my love of reading into an outlet for writing. It was in her class I began to write creative stories using the names of my classmates. There were two reasons I used my classmates names. First, their names were familiar to me so I choose the person who was nice to me on any particular day. The other reason was to simply fit in with the girls.
Mrs. Chakin helped foster my writing by reading my work to the class. She would either read my paper out loud first, if she was reading multiple students work, or she would read it last. Sometimes my paper was the only one read. It often felt like a spotlight. Sometimes I liked it and sometimes I didn’t. But I didn’t stop writing my stories and Mrs. Chakin didn’t stop reading them. During recess, I’d sometimes stay in the classroom with her because I was working on another idea and did not want to forget it. I think she also knew I didn’t like the other girls so much. I was an introvert and it seemed everyone else wasn’t. Mrs. Chakin thought nothing of letting me come back up to the classroom after I had my lunch. The classroom was peaceful. The school yard was in the back of the building and Mrs. Chakin’s classroom was in the front of it. I could not hear the screams and giggles in the school yard so the classroom almost felt like I was in my own library. Mrs. Chakin let me be. I did not ask any questions because while I was writing she was having lunch and looking at the newspaper. I did not want to disturb her and she obviousl did not want to disturb me. My mother recently showed me a copy of my 4th grade report care where Mrs. Chakin wrote “Nayanda has a wonderful narrative voice. She should write more.” I had forgotten about that comment and what she did to help with my creative process is in those few words.
Writing gave me the voice and the confidence I did not have in class. My stories were funny and imaginative for a 4th grader and the laughs from my classmates felt better than the spotlight. From that age on I kept a notebook, diary, journal or even a yellow legal pad with me so I could jot down whatever idea or sentence I thought would make it in a good story or poem. I forgot how to bake bread but I have never forgotten how to write a story.
Now that I am in graduate school I find it difficult to write creatively while simultaneously writing academically. The creative writing is pushed to the back burner. There is a different thought process for me when I have to write a paper. Where creative writing allows freedom, academic writing is rigid with its parameters. There are rules one must follow for the academic writing to be considered acceptable. I’d be hard pressed to find hard and fast rules for creative writing. For me, the first thing I must do in order to succeed in writing academically is to understand the assignment. Once I know the assignment, I work to figure out the rest.
The first academic essay I remember writing came from my 12th grade honors English teacher, Mrs. Spilotro, who taught right across the hall from the 12th grade history class her husband taught. She read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn to us in class as we read along. Our classroom was huge with windows along one side of the room and the coat closets opposite the windows. The desks were situated where either the window was to your back or the closets were to your back. The students would sit facing each other with a large open area in the center of the classroom for activities e.g, spelling bees, readings and even reciting Lady MacBeth’s famous soliloquy.
Mrs. Spilotro had two chairs. There was one behind her desk where she sat while we took a test or read to ourselves. The other was a bar chair, not a stool, she used when she was reading to us. It lifted her high above her students so she seemed to look down on us. The bar chair sat in front of her desk which was right in the middle of the two rows of student’s desk on either side of the room. In my memory Mrs. Spilotro wore a perfect white cotton blouse under a black dress that went to her knees. She often reminded me of a penguin with glasses, perched on the tip of her nose, sitting resolutely and reading to us.
She was not the type to chit-chat with students before or after class. Whatever instructions we received we were told in class and we were responsible for writing them down. I did not need to write down the instructions for The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. They were simple. After the book was completed we were to write a paper “using 12th grade English” to support or oppose our view of why this book should or should not be taught in schools. As a creative writer I knew the difference; I knew the language she wanted and started to form my ideas.
I supported the position that the book should be taught in schools. In our class discussions Mrs. Spilotro told us how people used to ban and burn books for many reasons but they all seemed to point to fear to me. The language in Twain’s novel was the point of contention. I remember writing how his use of the word “nigger” was not meant to be derogatory but it was indicative of that period of time. To take the word out would leave the story hollow and unauthentic. Young white boys called grown, slave men “nigger” as if it were their name because that’s what their fathers and the others did. Mrs. Spilotro told us that Twain was accused of being a racist and I argued what else could he be growing up in the era that he did. I did not know if it was true but I knew he was a writer who was true to his craft in setting this story and maintaining the language that was an important part of the fabric of American history.
When she handed all the graded papers back to the students, I did not receive a mine. I thought to myself, here we go again. What’s wrong this time? Mrs. Spilotro seemed to have a problem with my handwriting. I liked flourishes in my letters and did not keep to the handy penmanship border guide that lined the classroom walls. I thought this was one of those moments. As it turned out, nothing was wrong. She told the class, “This is what I expected in your papers” and proceeded to read my essay as I sat with my mouth agape. The usual “A” students, as well as a few others, were looking around to see who didn’t receive their paper. No one anticipated it would be mine.
I sat in the first seat that started the row with my back to the windows. I heard the collective gasp of my classmates as she handed the paper back to me. She went on to point out how I made use of the words “derogatory” and “consistently” and provided examples from the text and the time period to support my argument of why The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn should be taught in schools. That was the first time Mrs. Spilotro gave me the slightest of smiles which I read as saying, “Well done.” It had a profound effect on me because I finally felt that she was proud of my work. No longer was she concerned with how I made my lower-case “k’s.” Now she was more focused on what I was writing rather than how I was writing it.
It was the first time I realized I could write academically as well as produce little stories to amuse my friends. I learned that I had many voices including a narrative one, an authoritative one and an introspective one when I felt strongly about a subject. This introspection is what I used to form my essay. Although I initially wanted to say that the book should be banned, I had to think about what that meant to me as an avid reader. Was I really advocating for a book to be banned that was littered with a word that hurt my mother’s feelings? She was a child of the south, not quite used to the fast pace of New York, but glad to escape a place where her and her sibling’s names were never used outside of their home. This point, I realized, was not a valid enough argument to sustain throughout my paper. In the end, I learned the differences between making up characters and their situations and discussing and probing the characters and plots made up by the authors. In doing so, I was able to develop some ideas that were my own despite what I felt internally.
My teacher did not recognize my linguistic competence until she read my paper. I never gave her an opportunity to hear me verbally nor was anything I submitted previously as good. Prior assignments were given in and handed back but I do not recall any comments that were made, nothing that moved me quite like this. I do not believe she knew me to be a reader. I doubt she read my contributions in the school magazine. It was rare that I raised my hand to answer a question, unless I was positive of the answer. She did not recognize my linguistic competence because I hid it from her. I probably hid it from myself too, unaware that it was in my possession. However, after turning in this essay, I could not hide it any more. This is when I first discovered that academic writing offered a different kind of praise than creative writing. Creative writing is all about the story, how it’s shaped and told. I think academic writing is more challenging and more difficult. It requires analysis, critical thinking and reflection. It requires a different thought process.
When I look back on this assignment now, I see how it changed the way I read as well. Writing the paper caused me to interpret the book differently. It wasn’t just about a young boy’s journey down the Mississippi. Therefore, I had to discover what else this story was about. It caused me to take on the author’s perspective and as a budding writer I put myself in Twain’s place. What does the author want me to know by telling me this story? Who was the intended audience? Why tell this story? All of these questions came into play when I was writing this assignment for Mrs. Spilotro. All of these questions or some variation of them come into play when I read now. I honestly wanted her to be impressed with what I said and how I said it. I no longer wanted the glance over from her but the slight smile she gave when she was pleased.
I wish I could find that paper today. I think of it often when I’m asked about a memorable writing experience. It’s the only essay I regret losing.
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