MY VACATIONS
The infamous “What I did on
my Summer Vacation Essay”, I’m not sure I was ever assigned that one. Suddenly
I see myself in Junior English. I was 16 then, a bespectacled carefree
high-school kid. And it almost was, but only almost because there I was sitting
in my name brand jeans thought I probably spent all my birthday money on. I am
also pretty sure that I woke up at least an hour before school started to pack
my school bag.
But back to my 16 year old
self, English was just a class. Not one I particularly looked forward to
either. If anyone had asked my favorite subject I never would have said
English. I dreaded the essays and sentence diagramming. I did look forward to
the reading lists, although, I tried not to appear too eager. I complained as
much as the rest as the class, but at home I read them. Cover to cover. Usually
well before the deadline. I hated homework of read chapters one and two. I read
books, like I later learned to drink beer. Fast until I finished. I couldn’t
stop at the end of chapter two. I needed to know what happened like I needed
another drink.
And I liked the excuse to
read, at this stage I oft felt like I needed one. Reading was kind of cool for
a while. Me and Abhinav were the best of friends since elementary school. I
also went through a slightly embarrassing Babysitters Club phase, because my
parents were out working. Sometime in junior high those books seemed babyish,
and replaced with talking on the phone, listening to music (really bad music I
might add) and playing football or cricket. So when we got our reading lists
every year I dug in.
You already have most of the
background, but what you don’t know is that I was more than a bit guarded. I
didn’t like letting people in. Really in. Being vulnerable wasn’t exactly safe
in my family and well not that safe for anyone in high school period. That
being said I would have killed for our first writing assignment to be “what I
did on my summer vacation”. Surely I would have written something amusing or
satirical. I doubt I would have truly written about our beach vacation where
more than likely my parents screamed at each other, and then I was grounded for
2 weeks, for no apparent fault of mine. I can’t remember that summer in
particular but they were all pretty much the same. Not to say there weren’t any
warm memories from those summer retreats. Surprisingly there are many, but at
16 you kind of gravitate towards the bad stuff. The melancholy teenager hanging
on to anything to give him a thick wall to build around herself. Yes, I would
have written something light and clever and given it a really zingy title. I
was well known for my zingy titles. Instead Mrs. Dey asked us to write not one
silly essay but a collection of private personal ones. I believe it was called
a “me book”. I cringed as she described the assignment. Now, as a teacher I can
see what she was trying to do. She wanted to get to know us. Who we were, what
we liked, how we wrote, how to reach us. The problem was, I was 16 and she wasn’t
one of them. A grown up. A teacher. A mom of a kid in our class. She was not to
be trusted. How could I write all these essays on who I was, my strongest
influences, the things I was most proud of etc.. Maybe later in the year. Maybe
by April or something when we had a chance to feel each other out. Not now. Not
the first week. I can picture her clearly. She was about my mom’s age. Short,
with short dark hair. She was always very smartly dressed, much more stylish
than my mom. She always seemed a bit shifty to me. She had this large mole on
her face that I couldn’t help but stare at as she lectured. It was about the
size of a dime and I swear it got bigger as the year went on. She was probably
a pretty good teacher, although she made me uneasy. Usually good teachers fall
into one of two categories: cold, hard and feared, but eventually that fear
turns into respect and the cold starts to warm. This would be Mrs. Biswas my
6th grades science teacher and first F-grade I ever received on a test. Next
would be the warm and encouraging type. You learned so much simply because you
wanted to please them. This would be my 10th grade English teacher, Mrs. David.
I wouldn’t have memorized that ridiculously long Friends, Romans, Countrymen speech
for anyone else. Mrs. Biswas didn’t quite fit into either category. I suppose
she was hard, but not especially challenging. I didn’t warm to her, nor did I
truly respect her. I did, however, like to argue with her. This was her fault
of course. She introduced our poetry unit with this long flowery speech about
how no opinion or interpretation of a poem could be wrong. There were no dumb
questions or bad observations. Once again, as a fellow educator I can see what
she was trying to do. She wanted to create a safe atmosphere for us to speak up
and discuss. The only problem with that was she announced to my class that my
observation was dead wrong only 15 minutes after her flowery speech. I didn’t
burn with shame, instead I took it as a challenge. Maybe this challenge was
just what I needed to motivate me to prove myself to her academically or maybe
all it motivated me to do was oppose her every time in class for the next 2
weeks.
Back to my first week
assignment…These personal essays had a cold fearful grip on me. Usually my
writing process involved mulling the topic over for a bit and then pouring it all
out on paper the day or so (or occasionally the period) before it was due. I
didn’t proofread or spellcheck. I finished them in a flurry and handed them in.
I think I was afraid if I gave them a proper reading I would be too embarrassed
to even have them graded. My spelling was not something to be envied. I never
quite got a great grasp on grammar either. To this day I couldn’t tell you what
an errand is(I can!). I somehow managed to get As, although my essays were usually
heavily marked with red. These essays were different. I was supposed to reveal
something about myself. To her. To someone who could be my mother…and that
would be the last person I wanted to be unguarded around. Sometimes I still
feel that way. I briefly just considered making it all up. Some fictional crap
that would satisfy her little assignment and still get me a good grade. It
might even be fun, making things the way I wanted them to be instead of how
they were. I also considered doing what I usually (yes still) do when I am a
bit uncomfortable and guarded…being funny. Writing decent essays, but not
digging in. Keeping them on the surface and full of satire. The struggle was I
couldn’t do either. It felt like I would be cheapening it somehow. I didn’t
trust this Mrs. Biswas. It was still too early to tell if she would earn my
respect, but I realized the writing already had. That it didn’t just get to
scratch the surface or be passed off as a joke. That it was bigger than my
fear. So I did it. I wrote about my fears and my hopes and my proudest moments.
I put it all on paper and fearfully turned it in. Who it was this 16 year old
boy thought he was. I saved one of those essays. I think it is in my high
school box up in my parent’s attic. I did get an A. I can’t remember if it was
really any good or not. I didn’t sign up to be my high school magazine editor
or go on to pursue a degree in journalism. I didn’t spend all my free time
writing short stories instead of watching 90210, but it did teach me that this
writing stuff was real. It had to be vulnerable, and it was most certainly to
be respected, big hairy mole and all.
“Keeping
them on the surface and full of satire”. I’ve done it, again! I basically had
nothing to write about my Summer Vacations, I did practically nothing – other
than sleeping and watching TV Shows and movies. Drudgery of routine, not proper
routine but. Nothing of quality, other than playing football religiously every
day during the holidays!
So, this is my – “My vacation”
essay. I hope it satisfies you, Sir!
