I watched in silence as my English teacher explained today’s lesson to the class, hearing what was said, but certainly not listening. Not a single word that came out of my teacher’s mouth, or any of my classmates’, was payed attention to by me. I closed my eyes and rested my head on the graffiti covered table, silently praying that I would remain undisturbed for the remainder of the lesson. It was nearly time to go home, and I was desperate to do so, so that I may escape the bore of the class I was forced to attend. Despite the fact that I was so very desperate to head home, I did not scramble out of the classroom like many of the others when the bell finally did ring. I stood up slowly and took my time in packing up my books and stationary. Even after I had packed away my things, I pretended to be preoccupied with my shoelaces as I watched the class from the corner of my eye. After all, how was I to steal anything if half of the class was still here? No, I was not so audacious to take such a risk. Before long, there were only seven people left in the classroom; Helena and her two best friends, or loyal pets as I preferred to call them were standing near Helena’s desk and discussing a topic that I seriously lacked interest in. Then there was Rico, a teammate from the basketball team who was currently discussing sports with his best friend, Jesse. The other two people in the classroom were myself and the Mr Hensley, who was typing away busily on his laptop. I quickly
The familiar aroma of coffee fills the air as I enter the not so common area. I feel very bewildered in the labyrinth of hallways searching for my classroom just like I had stepped into corn maze as a child. At last, I locate the secluded room tucked away inside the massive building. Even though the number on the door matches the number on my schedule I am still second guessing if I am in the right place. The door opened up as students poured out. Finally, I took my seat at the back, trying my hardest to sit down unnoticed. My hands were shaking as I wrote the class name at the top of my paper. After what seemed like ages the professor proceeded to
On the first day of class, after he was done checking in, he sat down to observe his classmates returning from their summer vacations. Initially, he walked in full of confidence and his head held high. However, that quickly changed when he heard his classmates speak French, and the feeling of intimidation washed over him like waves hitting the beach, “at my age, a reasonable person should have completed his sentence in the prison of the nervous and insecure . . . my fears have not vanished, rather, they have multiplied with age” (Sedaris, 1999, 1). For being a forty-one-year-old man, he thought these feelings of insecurity and fear in the classroom would have ended long ago. If he thought things could not get worse, he was mistaken. The teacher walked in, rattled off commands to the class, and then asked them to recite the alphabet. In that moment, he knew he was in trouble, “I’ve spent time in Normandy, and I took a monthlong French class in New York. I am not completely in the dark, yet I only understood half of what she said” (Sedaris, 1999, 1) and, despite the exposure he already had, he was still unable to understand everything the teacher was saying.
A typical routine of a fourth grade student in Five Oaks, Michigan shifted immediately when the unfamiliar substitute teacher entered the classroom. Mr. Hibler, the students’ normal teacher, came down with a cough and wasn’t in the classroom for a few days. Inside the school setting is where all the important and developing events throughout the story occurred. The students were used to the typical memorization of facts, predictable subjects, and uneventful classroom teachings. Miss Ferenczi disrupted this normality of the routine of a day the students had. “She said that the Egyptians were the first to discover that dogs, when they are ill, will not drink from rivers, but wait for the rain, and hold their jaws open to catch it.” (Baxter 256) The facts and statements she said to the students engulfed their thoughts. Leading them to be confused, intrigued, and curious to hear more. These were feelings they never expected to feel at school. While, more often than not, Miss Ferenczi was presenting mythical, untrue, or incorrect facts, the students mindsets shifted in the classroom. Boredom no longer invaded the students whenever Miss Ferenczi was speaking. “There was no sound in the classroom, except for Miss Ferenczi’s voice, and Donna DeShano’s
Today is the day, the day I would get the paper I worked so hard on back. It is a chilly fall morning as I walked to my AP Literature classroom. The classroom was full of vibrant colors that match my teacher’s fiery red hair, various pug pictures, and a shelf jam-packed with Mr. Potato heads. Mrs. Grimes, my teacher, is loud, impolite, and to say this nicely, she is an overweight older woman. I hate going to her class every day, nothing I ever do is good enough for her, she hates me all because I am quiet. So, I am very apprehensive about what grade I had received on this paper.
The five-minute warning bell goes off. I rush to my first class of my junior year, eager to see my classmates, who I was going to spend the rest of the 9 months with. I find myself stumbling into a classroom plastered with decorations of Denzel Washington with a Dr. Seuss book in his hand, a t and college flags galore. My AP English 11 class suddenly seemed so appealing to me. As a beautiful, curly haired short lady stood in front of me and said “Welcome to AP English 11,” I knew that I had found a treasure so much greater than just a pretty classroom. Little did I know, that short lady was going to inspire me throughout my challenge filled second-to-last year of high school.
The low ceiling cowered above and the black plastic chairs formed a restless crowd around me. From my seat, I could smell the acute scent of cleaning fluid, whiteboard markers, and the nauseating perfume of the girl sitting next to me. Like so many other students, she exuded concentration. Her brows were drawn as her hand moved rapidly over the testing booklet, only pausing to reposition herself or cast an almost imperceptible sidelong glance. The effortlessness of her actions furthered my anxiety as I began tapping my foot uneasily against the speckled linoleum floor. Through the dusty shades that hung precariously in front the only window in the room, I could see the outline of a solitary building shadowed by the dense gray fog that clung to the courtyard outside. At that moment, I would have given anything to be able to run and scream at the top of my lungs. I had an inexplicable urge to break free from the confinement of that room and what it
The classroom set up was very different than what I was used to back in Nepal. I didn’t know anyone in there. I didn’t know what to do, so I just managed to sit in the chair that was nearby the door. All the other students were staring at me like something was wrong with me. In reality, everything felt wrong to me when I was in the situation where it felt so bad that I just wanted to quit. It seemed like I was on a one-way street, and I couldn’t figure out what I should do and how I would get out from it. It was almost the end of that class. The time passed just by watching a documentary on the literature’s time period. After the bell rang, all the students left the classroom; then I walked to my teacher with the problem I was having. I was lost in every other class as the hallways get crowded and the buildings were huge. He helped me solve the problems that I had, and my first day of the new school passed in the same way as it did first three hours of that
It was my first class, of my first day, of my first year at Sartell High School. As a freshman, everything about high school is nerve wracking. Simply just looking at an upper classman would send chills throughout your spine. Basically, school was prison at the time (metaphor). Every freshman would walk into their classes, crossing their fingers, and wishing to see one of their friend’s vibrant faces. I clearly remember that day; I trudged through the halls with some of my very best friends, and we tried to find our first classes. The smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies swam up my nose (personification); I then realized that I must be close to my first class, foods and nutrition. Standing outside the room, I look in and notice the room was white and vacant (Participial Phrase). My stomach dropped to the floor; I knew nobody in this class. I quickly glanced around the bare room, looking for a familiar face. The only other girl in my grade was absolutely the last person I would want to share this class with. She looked like somebody I would not normally want to associate with, conceited and stuck up. With rapid, quiet feet, I walked into the classroom, and I heard the rustling of papers (Prepositional Phrase). This could only mean one thing, a seating chart. I scurried through the chart and found my spot. Of course, I sat next to her, the cruelest girl in school,
I felt the eyes of the other students burning holes through my skin. There was no escaping from reading in front of class, not this time. My voice stuttered, my palms sweated, and my face turned red as I looked at the blurred words on the page. I tried and failed to make sense of the book in front me. I wished, I was invisible.
Mr. Kovach was far from the most liked teacher at Fort Osage High School. In fact, before joining one of his classes my senior year, I remember a friend of mine telling me, “I had him last semester. It was a really hard class.” Still, having been told to not give in to “senioritis,” I entered into his college credit english class with a determined mindset. I still remember the first day: him standing imposingly across the hall from his domain, seemingly trying to weed out the poor unfortunates that may wander into his trap of a classroom. When the door closes behind him after passing time, so did my means of escape.
I trudge through the hallway in disbelief that it’s only the second week of my junior year. The tumultuous sea of students push passed my slender body; I keep my head down watching the shuffling of feet as I make my mindless progression. Obfuscated, my mind struggles to recall life before this weekend but such an egregious event is not easily forgotten. How was I going to explain myself? Somehow I made it to my English classroom where my affable teacher sat diligently bent over papers. Even though he appears undeniably nonthreatening my hands still shake amid my trek to his desk. Not knowing how to commence telling my story I simply blurt out “I’m sorry if I start crying in class...my dad tried to kill me this weekend.”
The warm sunshine that was streaming through the classroom window was doing nothing to help my concentration as I sat in class trying to pay attention. The teacher’s monotone voice droning on about some dead men who fought in a battle hundreds of years ago was slowly putting me to sleep.
Focus. A young child sits in class clutching his stomach in hopes of muffling its audible growl. The teacher stands in front of the class; her words had lost all meaning due to a devastating headache that began hours ago. Risking a glance at the clock, the student notices exactly how close lunch period was. Not that he didn’t realize it already, the aroma of food had invaded his nostrils and mocked his empty stomach. He closed his eyes, willing the hunger pangs away. Upon opening his eyes the student discovered that his teacher’s angry glare was fixated on him. He shrank down in his chair as he received punishment for his inattentiveness; staying five minutes after the lunch bell rang. Little did his teacher know she was doing him a favor.
The bell rang loudly, resounding across the room to announce the transition of periods. As I packed my notebook into my bag, I quickly checked my schedule for my next class. English. The most common yet most varying class one can have, either torturous or exhilarating it acts as the ultimate enigma of studies. I quickly picked up my schedule from the table and filed out the door as merely another student, no different from the others, we shared the same dread of boredom, questioned the importance of this one class from moment to the next. Whether English, or Math, or Biology, or History, were any truly independent of each other, or was each simply a facet of one system of learning.
“Desmond you’re up next. Don’t worry, you’ll do great.” whispered my English teacher. I stand outside the door, waiting to be called. My head is engulfed with anxiety and terror, sensations that never fail to creep up