Reflective Essay About My English Teacher

My freshman year everyone had branched off from me and I was pretty much a loner. I didn’t belong to any sports group, academic club, or extra afterschool curricular. It was just me, myself, and I. on day in English class, with Mrs. Nelson we were all given projects which consisted of various assignments on the topic of The Great Gatsby.” While Mrs. Nelson handed out assignments, fairly easy grades right? So wrong. When Mrs. Nelson handed me my assignment, I wanted to die (not literally). For the assignment I had to write a song based on something from the book. After class I asked her why I was given the assignment and if I was able to change it, what she told me gave me the confidence to complete the project and get that

In high school I was not the best at writing. I did not find this out until I was places in advanced English. I was used to writing papers that had to be simple. So when I started receiving C’s and D’s I told myself something had to change. I finally realized that I could not write as well as most of my classmates. So, what I ended up doing was making my papers more complex and making my sentences stronger. When I applied myself I became a stronger writer. As I took the diagnostic test I saw I was making a lot of mistakes. At the end I made a 70. From this I could see why I encountered the bad experiences in high school and in college.

English class has never been my strong suite. I always had to work twice as hard in English then I did in any other class. Writing paper always had me stressed and overwhelmed, I felt discouraged in my work. l never seemed to be able to get to the level I wanted to. I would try my hardest and paid attention in class, but when it came to writing the paper none of that seemed to help. I think that my experience in English Composition 1 has helped gain and grow in some areas, but I don’t think that it highlights a well-written college essay. Some elements that I worked to improving was introduction paragraphs, tone, style, and thesis statements.

When presented with the question, “who are you as a writer?”, I was speechless at first. But after thinking about it, I realized who I am as a writer has been influenced by so many different sponsors throughout my life and there was not a short, concrete answer. Brandt mentions that “literacy is sponsored by people, institutions, and circumstances that both make it possible for a person to become literate and shape the way the person actually acquires literacy.” (Brandt 43) My attitude towards writing has been influenced by teachers, both negatively and positively, by my mother, and by academic assignments over the years. My answer to the question can only be answered by a narrative of my writing life. I have convinced myself that I am a terrible writer, and when presented with a writing assignment, I get anxious instantly. I see writing as a burden and a huge obstacle that gets placed in my life. Academic writing is not fun, but something I value due to the fact that we are a grade driven society. When writing, I write to the guidelines in order to receive points for the requested criteria. The reason being, I gave up on expressing my own ideas because I had been shut down by so many teachers throughout my education. I tried to write down what came to my mind and put my own twist on things, but that was not the “right” way to write papers. In order to make both my teachers and my grades happy, I wrote what they wanted to hear, and even then I was not to the level they

We wrote many papers and turned in rough drafts before final drafts. Sounds quite similar right? Not at all. This teacher didn’t teach us how she wanted us to write. My A’s turned into B’s and she never specified what was wrong with my papers. Not only that, but her classroom was a completely different environment. There was no room for creativity. There was a lot of reading and papers. Nothing less, nothing more.

Middle school was a prime time for teachers assigning papers. I wouldn’t even be able to count the number of papers I was forced to write during my time in middle school. Most people look back at their middle school years and remember all the crazy antics that come with being a middle school aged kid; not me. My memories of middle school are overshadowed by memories of long nights sitting at my dining room table agonizing over a book report to about The Giver, a paper about Auschwitz, and a biography I had to write about my sixth grade teacher – just to name a few. These may not seem like such a big deal to some people, but for me they were some of the most difficult assignments.

The next day, as promised, she handed out a short pop quiz. It was not as challenging as she tried to make it sound. It presented only five multiple choice questions on it. Once we finished our quizzes, she told us to read the next chapter silently. Once I finished my quiz at the speed of light, I decided to finish other homework, since I preferred to read at home anyway. So while the rest of my class was reading, I worked on homework. Thirty minutes later, I completely finished all of my other assignments, so I decided to start reading the chapter. After nearly two paragraphs in, my teacher interrupted the class to see if everyone finished reading the chapter. Unknown to me, the chapter was fairly short and everyone, but me, finished it. Raising my hand slowly, I told her that I had not finished reading. Everyone in my class turned around and stared at me. The teacher asked me how far I was in the chapter and how much time I needed to

As Mrs. Grimes started to slowly pass the papers back, my heart started to race. Did she like my paper, please let me get a good grade? I worked to make this the best, or most disturbing, ending I could imagine for the story. I even used my prior knowledge about drug use and withdrawal from my AP Psychology class to make my story better. I feared that none of this would matter to Mrs. Grimes. I could hear her talking to the other students as she passed the papers back congratulating them on writing an excellent paper. This made me even more anxious, would she even say anything to me or would she just pass by me quickly after handing it back? I wish she would pass back the papers faster!

My essays in that English class were below average, according to her standards. She drilled every grammatical rule into our heads until she felt like it would stay there forever, and I felt like she returned my papers with big, fat D’s out of spite. None of my essays had been worth the hours of labor I put into them, so why would they matter at that moment? I was ready to fake it with every ounce of beguiling poppycock I could muster at that

The first teacher that I fully understood what writing meant was freshmen year in high school. My teacher was Mr. Landuyt and he explained to us that writing is for our own personal benefit. At that moment I realized that writing is not just for a grade to keep our parents happy. The most successful thing I have ever written was a short story that I wrote when I was a senior in

My senior year AP English teacher is well known throughout the school for being the hardest grading teacher there is. An argumentative research paper comprises a significant part of our grade. Although he assigned us the research paper at the beginning of the year, most people procrastinated until it was due in two weeks. I along with handful of people had finished and turned it in two weeks before the due date. My teacher quickly reviewed my essay and said to the class that I had written a good paper. This prompted a wake-up call for the whole entire class. Word spread, and I found myself surrounded by many people who desperately needed my help.

In August, our first day in the college class, Mrs. Garth talked with the class about what this semester was going to be like. She spoke to us as college students and not little children. She told us that Comp. was all about writing. As a class, we knew there would be more writing than we were use to, but the very first paper that Mrs. Garth told us to write was unlike any other paper I had ever wrote on my own. We were told to write about our favorite foods, our not so favorite foods, or a tragedy that has happened to us in our life. Of course, I wrote about the tragedy, my paper was written on the note of my grandmother passing away. I used very descriptive details in my writing about what the days were like for me and how I felt after she was gone. While writing the paper, I thought to myself

During my high school years, there were several teachers that I encountered. However, there was one teacher whom I shall never forget. In fact, he would be very difficult to forget, even if he were only remembered for his size, for he was an enormous man. His name is Anthony Sweeney of “Sugar Butty” my third form math teacher. To this point, I never knew the exact reason for such name but all students referred to him in such manner. He was six feet five inches tall and towered over us like a giant and he weighed over three hundred pounds. I never discovered his exact age, but, he must have been no more than forty, even though his hair had turned grey relatively early on, and there was a smooth shiny bald patch on the crown of his head. But, it is not just for his size that I remembered him. In fact, one of the things with I remembered distinctively was his sudden change in temper. One moment he would be very jovial and pleasant to speak to in class, and the next he would shout violently at some timid student who was merely looking through the window or he would become very mean and impatient with his students. For these reason, he became my absolute worst teacher.

For some reason or another certain students are drawn to particular teachers while other students are more fond of others. In my life I have studied under three memorable teachers. Teachers with which I was able to connect, to laugh, to share my misgivings. While I may have been close with each of these teachers, it is very clear, in retrospect, that each was very unique, and represented an entirely different class of teacher.

When I think about teachers that I have had in the past, several different ones come to my mind. Each of these educators stands out in my mind for a variety of diverse reasons. Whether it is their sense of humor, their tactfulness, their love of the subject matter, their fanatical and sporadic behavior, or their yearning to be childish themselves, I can still remember at least one quality of every teacher I have ever encountered. Every one of these teachers conveyed subject material to their students just as they were educated and employed to do. However, I trust that every professional in the world has an abundance of opportunity for improvement; teachers could discover and improve themselves merely by having