Tear Drops covering the Page

English 300-8:00 am       Essay One-Personal Narrative             06/07/2012        M. Aaron Miller

Tear Drops covering the Page

            I must admit my memory passes quickly.  I have heard others speak of the brain as a filing system for memories.  In this, perhaps is some truth and my brain is the one place I cannot stand clutter.  Memories are tossed in a bin for sorting where they exist for a short time in full disclosure; these are then filed away without me knowing if the memory will ever be retrieved again or maybe it even ceases to be, thrown in a trash bin, a non-existence.  A few memories I hold onto, these pop up when I think about major events in my life.  These are turning points or especially difficult tribulations, which as one might say represent an aspect of the many things that make me who I am today.  Allow me to describe one such incident in as much detail as recollection permits.

            I was still so young, only a child.  My childhood was marked by several local re-locations. These, however, did not start until around the 3^rd grade.  Therefore, to put my best guess forward:  I am in the third grade.  We moved in the middle of that year, remaining within walking distance of my old school.  It was decided that I would continue going to the same old school until the new school year began.  I remember vividly living in that house then.  I know that I was in the family room, likely sitting on the couch.  I have never typically used a desk, and I do not remember a table being in that room.  I sat there diligently doing my homework, because that is what good boys do of course! However, I felt as if the work was all quite trivial.  Since the subject was English, I needed to rewrite the entire sentence and only doing something simple like adding a word, comma, or rearranging the sentence for structural purposes.  I began thinking things like, “this is ridiculous why all this work for only little corrections”.  As it went on like that, I began to wonder when it would all be over.  Continuously I am thinking, this is such a pointless task, it is not like I do not know how to do it.  Still I look and there are so many problems left.  Again I think, “This is pointless”.  One after the other I am plugging along, but the work appears to be the exact same, only the book is using different sentences and I have to write them all out.  My hand, I feel, is starting to cramp and the problems keep going on, forever.  I cannot stop the thoughts, “These problems are so ridiculous the only thing they prove is that I am willing to do the stupid homework simply because I am told to”, “Ouch it hurts to write.  Just do it, keep writing”, and “Oh great, that is barely readable.  There really is no point in this stupid homework and I am not even going to get credit because no one is able to read it.”

            I sought insight and wisdom from my parents surely they would know what I should do.  Much to my dismay they thought I should get the homework done despite both its uselessness and my developing condition.  I continued the struggle, forcing myself to write, trying to ignore the pain.  I tried changing the way I wrote so it would not hurt as much, so those muscles that did hurt could try to relax.  But this awkwardness only caused me to clench the pencil tighter and the pain began to become greater.  At some point, the tears welled up in my eyes.  I wanted understanding from my parents and I again cried out to them through my pain.  They were full of compassion, but they only offered the same understanding I had given myself and that was beginning to fail.  And so in this moment, as the tears streamed down my face and my hand throbbed in pain I began to despise that pointless act of submission.

           To this day I cannot recall whether I ever finished the homework that night.  It must not have been important; it had no impact on me passing the 3^rd grade.  I cannot even remember if I later had similar instances with homework, possibly with the same teacher.  What I can decisively state:  to this day I do not like homework, unless it helps me better understand the process of solving a problem, but then once I understand something, I do not see any benefit of further homework.  These struggles oft make me feel as if I am of inferior ability, despite later experiences having suggested otherwise.  I, perhaps, have assimilated the entire English Department into this angst, because now for my own reasons I do not like the English dept. here at Western Kentucky University.  It has been a constant struggle getting in all three English general education courses; because, there are not enough courses offered and rarely does an open class fit into a full schedule of other courses.  This is compounded by a policy of the English department to never, under any circumstance, add a student if the class is not open.  All these experiences I have shared are contrary to the fact that I enjoy writing, and reading.  I am easily touched, or moved to show feeling, by a good book.  And I hold to the dream that I could write something that is capable of touching or moving others.  As I begin this new journey, this session of English 300, with these blank pages before me; I am filled with hope.  The hope that this course will bring me one step closer to my dreams; that the little boy, tears in his eyes and pain from his hand to his heart, will regain confidence long lost and start writing the story he was meant to share.