Sharon Veazey

 

Course: English 101

Instructor: Dr. Chance Harvey

Assignment: Narrative

 

Along with our teeth, two of the things we lose much too quickly while growing up are innocence and originality. Some of us do not realize when the death of these traits takes place, while others are haunted by it. For me, I could say the exact place and year it occurred. The reason I remember this is not because I regret it, though I do. Instead, it is the knowing that we, the fifth graders of Ms. Bramble’s English class, shot down the flicker of uniqueness we saw in Carrie. Also, something was unveiled to me that would follow my decisions and thoughts throughout the years to come. Society has no room for those who are different.

The odd tendency Carrie had was the choice of words she used to respond to the roll. Each day in class, Ms. Bramble would read off the list.

“Chris?”

“Here!”

“Samantha?”

“Here!”

“Carrie?”

“Present.”

Our heads snapped in her direction. Even at this age, we were bred to sense diversity. This pattern went on for days, then weeks, until the idea was planted in someone’s head. I can still see Dylan running towards us on the playground saying,

“Ya know that girl in the back who says something about a present every time her name gets called?”

A simultaneous “Yeah,” came from the rest of us, in a tone that said we were mad and disgusted.

“Well we gotta plan. Next time she says it, we all gotta say ‘Aww, for me? You shouldn’t have!’” We broke into laughter, although it really was not that funny. We just laughed because it was protocol if you wanted to be in “the group.” So, there it was. The plan was in action. Tomorrow, we had a job to do, and no doctor’s note could get us out of it.

There was something different in the air when I walked into the gym that morning. Every other day, that gym had welcomed me with open, noisy arms, but that morning, it’s as if those bleachers knew. Of course, that was just my childhood imagination taking over. No one cared what we were about to do. Ms. Bramble’s class finally came around. Just like the days before, she called out the roll at the usual time. I looked at Carrie sitting there doing her work, probably thinking about what her mom was cooking for dinner, anything except what was about to happen. In an instant, her name was called.

“Present!”

“Aww, for me? You shouldn’t have,” the class chimed in unison.

The classroom burst into laughter, Carrie’s cheeks flashed red, and Ms. Bramble shot us a glance, then went on with the roll. The next thing I knew, our teacher was talking about synonyms, pronouns, and other English terms, but I could not stop looking at Carrie. Her eyes were focused straight down at the floor while she twisted her lead pencil around her fingers. What was she thinking? I knew she had to be replaying what just happened over and over again in her mind, but what did she think about me? This question was not new to my mind because even as a fifth-grader, I had a fear of having other people hate me. As I moved between classes and then lunch and recess, I was in a haze. When I got home and my mom asked me what I learned in school that night, it was not surprising that I had no answer.

As each school day passed, the memory drifted farther and farther from my mind. Carrie was still considered odd and still the butt of many jokes. However, one week she never showed up to school. Rumors spread like fire across the monkey bars and down the jungle gym until someone asked a teacher about Carrie. She had been in an accident. On the day she finally came back to school, she told us what had happened. She was cutting her grass on a riding lawnmower when she got too close to the ditch. Both she and the mower tumbled down the slope, and the blade landed on her leg. It took a chunk out of her calf and left a scar that would not heal.

Carrie was always the victim, first of our jokes and, now, of the lawnmower’s relentless blade. Even though elementary school is filled with bright colors, it has its share of dark places. It is a replica of society but on a smaller scale. Misguided people try to exploit the innocent, and sometimes leave a scar so deep that it is irreversible. Since childhood, we have been taught that unique is bad. All the while, authority looks on but does not act. Ms. Bramble just kept calling the roll.

             

Instructor Comments: In writing this narrative essay, Sharon describes an event from her days in elementary school, a seemingly inconsequential event. In remembering and recounting the event, however, Sharon displays a self-critical insight that allows her to draw a significant moral lesson from her experience. She accomplishes this goal by writing an essay that is at once humorous, effectively reproducing the dialogue of her fifth-grade classmates, and somber, reflecting upon a timeless, universal theme. Her plain, straightforward style captures the innocence of youth and boldly states the lessons of experience. An essay of just under three pages, she makes her point with great economy and successfully sustains the interest of the reader.