Trần Phương My
(pucca0love)
Điều hành viên
By: Judith Asuzu
"Psssst! Pssssst!"
I lowered my head and glared angrily at her. "What is it?"
"Judy...LOOK!" Francesca whispered, sliding her brown eyes to the right as she struggled to hold back an oncoming fit of silent laughter. I put my pencil down and turned my head. My eyes fell on a heavy, dark haired, middle-aged woman unconscious at her desk. I quickly realized that Mrs. Horn, my English teacher, had passed out in the middle ò class. Twelve years old and under confident, I was much too conscious of my own imperfection to worry about my teacher's. We all knew she drank, but we liked her anyway.
Nineteen ninety-eight marked the dawn of my adolescence and my rude awakening to the cruelties of today's superficial society. As an awkwardly large and far-from-perfect twelve-year-old Catholic schoolgirl of West African descent, I was sadly nowhere near the ideal image of the beautiful, petite, blond-haired, blue-eyed preteen. My friends at school made my situation no better- in my eyes they all shared the perfect image of a preteen among themselves, and I was not even close to it. Years earlier, I had found a creative outlet for all of my troubles- writing. It was not until seventh grade that someone in my lìe encouraged me to let go of my superficial cáe and pursue my talent further. Who was that person? Turn to your right and glance at the sleeping woman who had one too many drinks last night. My mentor was Mrs. Margaret Horn.
Mrs. Horn helped me find my voice as a writer and, in doing so, overcome my own personal struggles. Seeing Mrs. Horn battle against her alcoholism inspired me to fight against my own insecurities. As I put more faith in myself through my writing, my grades on tests and papers improved. One day in October, she took me aside after class. "I am impressed with your work so far, Judy," she told me. "You have something special." Timidly, I stared down at the floor, as if searching for answers on the carpet. "Understand?" she abruptly asked. I quietly assured her that I did, but inside I did not understand.
Over the next several months, with Mrs. Horn's guidance and encouragement, I found voice in writing. I even won two tri-country essay competitions that year. Each time I had received, Mrs. Horn let me know that she was proud of my achievement and would not accept anything less than my best work.
On the last day of school, as I was about to leave my classroom for the final time, Mrs. Horn took me aside once more and told me something that would change my life forever. "Judy...someday I will read a book written by you." Needless to say, I was stunned. Never before in my life had someone put so much faith in me. A stinging swelling grew in my throat as tears clouded my eyes. In that moment, my confidence was born. I could do it if I put my mind to it, I thought. I hurriedly hugged my mentor and quickly left my insecurities in that seventh grade classroom. I had a book to write.
"Psssst! Pssssst!"
I lowered my head and glared angrily at her. "What is it?"
"Judy...LOOK!" Francesca whispered, sliding her brown eyes to the right as she struggled to hold back an oncoming fit of silent laughter. I put my pencil down and turned my head. My eyes fell on a heavy, dark haired, middle-aged woman unconscious at her desk. I quickly realized that Mrs. Horn, my English teacher, had passed out in the middle ò class. Twelve years old and under confident, I was much too conscious of my own imperfection to worry about my teacher's. We all knew she drank, but we liked her anyway.
Nineteen ninety-eight marked the dawn of my adolescence and my rude awakening to the cruelties of today's superficial society. As an awkwardly large and far-from-perfect twelve-year-old Catholic schoolgirl of West African descent, I was sadly nowhere near the ideal image of the beautiful, petite, blond-haired, blue-eyed preteen. My friends at school made my situation no better- in my eyes they all shared the perfect image of a preteen among themselves, and I was not even close to it. Years earlier, I had found a creative outlet for all of my troubles- writing. It was not until seventh grade that someone in my lìe encouraged me to let go of my superficial cáe and pursue my talent further. Who was that person? Turn to your right and glance at the sleeping woman who had one too many drinks last night. My mentor was Mrs. Margaret Horn.
Mrs. Horn helped me find my voice as a writer and, in doing so, overcome my own personal struggles. Seeing Mrs. Horn battle against her alcoholism inspired me to fight against my own insecurities. As I put more faith in myself through my writing, my grades on tests and papers improved. One day in October, she took me aside after class. "I am impressed with your work so far, Judy," she told me. "You have something special." Timidly, I stared down at the floor, as if searching for answers on the carpet. "Understand?" she abruptly asked. I quietly assured her that I did, but inside I did not understand.
Over the next several months, with Mrs. Horn's guidance and encouragement, I found voice in writing. I even won two tri-country essay competitions that year. Each time I had received, Mrs. Horn let me know that she was proud of my achievement and would not accept anything less than my best work.
On the last day of school, as I was about to leave my classroom for the final time, Mrs. Horn took me aside once more and told me something that would change my life forever. "Judy...someday I will read a book written by you." Needless to say, I was stunned. Never before in my life had someone put so much faith in me. A stinging swelling grew in my throat as tears clouded my eyes. In that moment, my confidence was born. I could do it if I put my mind to it, I thought. I hurriedly hugged my mentor and quickly left my insecurities in that seventh grade classroom. I had a book to write.