Red
Red used to be my favorite color. As a child, I loved its bright, bold presence and the way it could catch the attention of everyone around. Red stood for power and pride, something everyone longed to have. But more importantly, red was a symbol of love, a heart filled with caring and kindness.
Everything about me was red. Red clothes filled my closet. All my favorite foods were red, and of course, the Huskers were red! When we moved from Lincoln to North Platte in the fourth grade, my parents allowed me to choose the carpet color for my brand new room. I chose red.
Red was always a positive color, that is, until seventh grade English. Mr. Dodge, a short, round man with stark white hair, taught the class. He seemed to take pleasure in making his students squirm as he walked stiffly around the room. With his arms crossed sternly across his chest, posture perfect, he would stare us down as we slouched lower and lower in our seats, to avoid his eye contact. He reminded me of a disgruntled army general; similar to the ones in the many war movies I’d watched with my father.
The assignment that changed my life, and forever tainted my impression of the color, was a personal narrative on a special childhood memory. As the rest of the class complained and carried on about the assignment, dozens of ideas began to flood my mind. I loved to write! Writing had always been an important part of my life, my special gift. Writing is your place to shine, my mom always said.
The assignment wasn’t due for a week, but I couldn’t wait to get home to my journals. The leather bound books were filled with hundreds of possible topics and the entire evening was spent leafing through the precious pages of my life, laughing and crying at the moments that had been captured, on the pages, though the years.
The writing began that very night and continued throughout the week, a humorous memory from my Kindergarten year. Every spare moment was spent with pen in hand, encapsulating every intricate detail. My heart and emotions were poured into the story, and believe me, anyone who would listen, got to hear it, even Grandma, long distance. My piece had become a part of me, and I couldn’t wait to turn it in, convinced that even cranky Mr. Dodge would love it.
I remember gently placing the finished story on the old, oak desk and walking away with a true sense of accomplishment. It was perfect. My life, my memory, and my heart, lovingly placed on the clean white pages of the bound piece. I couldn’t wait for him to look at it. I don’t know why, but I needed his approval, his respect. I’d written a number of pieces and wanted to have an accomplished writer and teacher to share them with. With Mr. Dodge’s support and guidance I knew I could grow as a writer.
Two days later, Mr. Dodge handed back the papers. I can still remember the way the cruel words formed on his lips before dripping from mouth like venom. A deadly venom that poisoned each of his students that day.
“What a pitiful bunch of trash,” he said taking deliberate steps in my direction. “I thought that I had accidentally received a pile of Kinder-g-a-r-D-e-n work by mistake,” he scoffed, stopping right in front of me and glaring straight into my eyes.
My face started to tingle and feel hot, and a painful knot began to form in my stomach. It was clear that his cruel remarks had been directed at me, when my paper, soaked in red ink, was callously thrown on my desk. I stared disbelievingly at the paper; desperately searching for my name, knowing in my heart that it couldn’t possibly be mine. But it was. His malicious, red pen had smothered my childhood memory and my confidence with one swift stroke. Frantically, I turned the paper over, hoping to hide it from my friends’ inquiring glances. Certain that no one was watching, I shoved the paper into my backpack and slumped towards the classroom door. “Going to K-i-n-d-e-r-g-a-r-t-e-n, Miss Smidt?” he mocked.
Once safely out the door, a steady stream of tears began to fall, desperately trying to wash away the humiliation, and hurt I had just experienced. Certain I was alone in the restroom, I guardedly removed the crumpled paper from my bag and smoothed it out with my hand so I could read it. The word “kindergarden” had been circled in bold, red ink each time it appeared in my story. One short sentence was scratched on the bottom of the first page. It didn’t say, I love the feelings you put in your story, or I can tell you really spent a lot of time writing, but instead it said, you have got to be kidding me, you’re in the 7th grade and you still can’t spell the word Kindergarten!” Unbelievable! C-
I’m sure many people have had similar experiences, tragic tales of teachers who unknowingly shattered confidence and self esteem with one evil colored comment. In my case, Mr. Dodge robbed me of my carefree innocence towards writing. Prior to his class, writing was a treasured hobby, something I chose to do in my free time. While my friends were in the basement playing Atari or watching TV, I was curled up on my comforter, writing a story in my journal. That all changed after the incident in his class.
Writing became difficult for me, reduced to pieces, which were simple, dull and voiceless. I no longer took chances with my vocabulary, instead relying on familiar words I knew how to spell, regardless of the picture they created. It still took me hours to complete writing assignments, but not because I was adding intricate details and images, but because so much time was spent with my head stuck in a dictionary, checking and rechecking spellings. Family members were instructed to check for spelling and grammar errors, with no mention of identifying the beauty the words created. My confidence had been shattered and I refused to put myself in a position when I could be ridiculed, or judged again.
It was fifteen years before I was once again willing to take chances as a writer. The change occurred during my participation in the Nebraska Writing Project Summer Institute. I walked into class the first day feeling like a frightened child. All of my seventh grade insecurities came flooding back when we were informed that each day we would be sharing writing with a small group, and at the end of day, I headed straight for the administration building to drop the class.
I still don’t know what stopped me, I don’t know why I didn’t walk through the big double doors of the brick building, all I know is that I’m glad that I didn’t. The Nebraska Writing Project not only restored my faith in myself as a writer, but it also opened my eyes to the new path my career would take… as a writing teacher, a writing teacher who doesn’t have any red pens in her classroom.