Read our August Writing Challenge Winners: Reflections on School
The challenge was to write a true story with school as a setting, with a maximum 1000-word length. The winners are recognized here on the SCWC blog, and the first place writer receives a small prize in the mail.
If you want to participate in our monthly writing challenges, stay active in the SCWC Facebook group. That's where we share our challenges with our members.
Our winners this month are:
1st place: Diana L. Waters
2nd place: Sue Mohr
3rd place: Flora Posey
Enjoy reading their stories below!
"The Poetry Lesson"
by Diana L. Walters
The year was 1962. I was in the 9th grade and although surrounded by 30 other students, I was invisible. I rarely spoke to anyone except Patty, who was seated alphabetically on the other side of the room.
We had just completed a unit on the short story. I loved that class because we were required to write how the piece made us feel. Emotions flowed freely from my pen. I hoped to someday become a writer.
One day we learned that Mrs. Bosch was taking an extended leave of absence to care for her ailing mother. “But there will be a substitute teacher here Monday to begin the poetry unit.” Groans met her announcement, not because the humorless Mrs. Bosch was leaving, but because our next unit was poetry. Only a handful of us were looking forward to it.
The principal, Mr. Darren, introduced Mrs. Root, a diminutive woman with salt-and-pepper hair piled atop her head. She looked old to our adolescent eyes, although she had just graduated from teachers’ college. She didn’t make eye contact when she offered a fleeting smile.
Although her voice was tremulous, there was passion in it when she spoke. “I’m delighted to share with you the wonders of literature and introduce you to the beauty of poetry.” Her words were met with snickers, and I felt embarrassed for her. No one talked like that.
When Mr. Darren left, Mrs. Root called roll, going down her seating chart, then looking up to identify each pupil. When Steve Smith’s name was called, Arnold Dickey, the class clown, raised his hand, “Here.”
“Aren’t you in the wrong seat, Steve?”
“We traded.”
“Would you trade back, please?”
So Arnold shoved Steve out of his rightful place, and Steve claimed to be someone else, causing a chain reaction of individuals answering to others’ names. Mrs. Root abandoned roll call. “Let’s just begin.”
I’d written only rhyming verse, so I listened intently while she explained blank verse, haiku, free verse, sonnets, and narrative poems. Other students talked among themselves. Mrs. Root paced the front of the room, her soft voice rising in an attempt to compete with the surrounding noise. “Young people, pay attention. This is important. You’re going to write your own poetry soon.” Her gaze landed on me, and she smiled as if to say, “I’m glad someone is listening.” I warmed at her approval.
Thus began a pattern of hour-long classroom chaos. Students talked and giggled. They mocked Mrs. Root when she read aloud. They refused to sit in assigned seats but noisily dragged their chairs across the floor to other locations. They polished their fingernails and blew bubbles with forbidden gum.
Cloaked in timidity, I tried to ignore my peers’ behavior and focus on the lessons. I was rewarded with affirming smiles from Mrs. Root.
When we were assigned to write an original poem, I labored over my verse for hours, painstakingly penning the final copy. I anticipated praise and a well-deserved “A.”
But I was finding it increasingly difficult to disregard the classroom turmoil. Instead of listening to Mrs. Root, my attention wandered to the antics of my peers. One day Arnold Dickey plopped down in the seat next to me and said “Hi.”
I looked around. Was he speaking to me? “Umm, hi,” I replied.
“Are you always this quiet?”
“Not when I’m at home.”
“You should let loose, have more fun. We’re only young once ya know.” He grinned and offered me a stick of bubblegum, which I accepted. He jumped up with a parting, “I’ll see you around,” and crossed the room to talk to someone else. I unwrapped the gum and popped it into my mouth.
Later Arnold pranced toward me, mimicking Mrs. Root’s walk and head-bob. I giggled. Mrs. Root stared at me.
I was increasingly drawn into schoolroom drama. Arnold stopped at my desk several times a day, attempting to make me laugh. He usually succeeded. Soon I was talking and blowing bubbles. One day I screeched my chair across the room to sit with Patty. Mrs. Root’s gaze followed me. She didn’t smile.
On the day our assignment was due, Mr. Darren stood before us. “Pass in your assignments,” he said.
Only half a dozen papers came forward. He held the papers and gazed into space. Minutes passed. People shifted in their seats, but no one uttered a sound.
“Mrs. Root won’t be returning, not to this class or any other. She has given up teaching.” Another long pause. “Mrs. Root dreamed that she could make a difference in the lives of young people. She loves literature—and thought she loved children.”
His voice rose. “Your obnoxious behavior made her think she wasn’t capable of teaching. You destroyed her dream! I wish you could understand how your actions affected her.”
He glanced at the papers he held. “I hope you worked hard on these.” He tore our assignments into confetti-size pieces and watched them float to the floor.
“There will be absolute silence in here the rest of the period.” He strode out the door.
There were murmurs from girls, titters from boys, and stunned silence from the rest of us. Tears stung my eyes. My beautiful poem—in shreds! Hours later I thought about Mrs. Root’s career being in shreds. That’s when I began to cry in earnest.
I wondered if my defection was the last straw for Mrs. Root. Was I the reason she gave up her dream?
I didn’t want to be the kind of person who shattered dreams. I wanted to help people, not hurt them! That was a defining moment for me.
In 1962 a substitute teacher walked into a classroom expecting to teach poetry to ninth graders. Instead, she taught a far more valuable lesson, one that changed the course of my life; I eventually became a social worker as well as a writer.
I think Mrs. Root would like to know she made a difference after all.
"Our School"
by Sue Mohr
Creative writing flowed onto pages of various notebooks, science projects thrived with the local homeschool community and afternoons were spent studying and pouring through books at the local library. Geometry and Algebra made sense in front of our eyes, spelling bees and vocabulary sprints challenged each of the girls, boatloads of Geography memorization became ingrained in their minds, typing class improved their computer skills, along with a plethora of research, reports, stories, poems, and lots of bible study throughout the day.
Homeschooling wasn’t always easy. Let’s put that on the table right away. Three girls with ever-changing emotions filled our home with continuous activity. As their teacher, I was always looking for creative ways to engage each of their personalities in ways that would help them to grow in the Lord and learn life lessons that would help their independence. There was a lot of maneuvering continuous questions, wiping up tearful moments, and redirecting sisterly whines and disagreements.
At the end of each day, I had homework of my own. Leafing through teacher manuals to make sure that I had it right, preparing 3 different lessons for the next day, and making sure I had all the elements needed for our arts and craft hour. It worked well, believe it or not. We started the day with all 3 girls at the table. The youngest would listen for a while, and when the squirming began, I would give her a little project to complete or a paper to color. The other two girls would continue until it came time for my middle daughter to work on her own and then my oldest daughter and I would finish out the school day together.
Each of them engaged at their own levels. Recently we discovered some of the binders that held their bookwork and I have to now agree with my oldest, she did have the most to do during those formative years.
One year we were studying curriculum based on the book series, Little House on the Prairie. The girls loved it. We made balloons out of pig bladders, cooked porridge, learned how to cross-stitch, made yummy home-made bread, twirled syrup in the snow making sweet candies that melted in their mouths, and discovered some very important life lessons along the way.
One of those lessons was the story of the character Mary. At a young age, she had contacted scarlet fever. At the age of 14, in 1879, Mary Ingall went blind. My girls were enthralled with the story and deeply saddened by the realization that this could happen to a girl so young. I asked them what their questions were. My youngest said, “Mama, how could she see when she was blind?”
That question kept me up all night. How could I show my daughters that there was hope even in the midst of tragedies? How could I teach them that life isn’t all peaches and cream just because we were believers? What words could I show them from scripture to reveal the saving grace of Jesus Christ while pain and sickness ravaged a human body?
The next day, I sat the girls down in the dining room before school and asked if they wanted to see how Mary dealt with her new normal. They all said yes. So I told them we would go through a normal day in our home with all 3 of them blindfolded. Their response was one filled with nervous giggles, excitement, with a bit of fear, doubt, and apprehension in the mix. With a wink and a gentle smile, I pulled out three different color pieces of fabric and gently tied them over their eyes, and said, “Trust me, mama is here."
Then we went to have breakfast. I helped each one to their seat at the kitchen counter, explaining that pancakes were in the center, bacon was at 2 o’clock and fruit was at 9 o’clock. They used their fingers to ‘see’ what was on their plate and ate their breakfast exclaiming how Mary must have felt. “This is doable.”, said my middle daughter. We continued on throughout the day, memorizing where the bathroom was by counting the steps, typing on the computer, re-listening to the story of how Mary became a teacher while blind, cuddling with each other, and talking about what they saw through their ears, not their eyes.
Once school was done for the day, the girls took off their blindfolds, eager to think and write about what they had experienced. When their dad walked in the door from work, they bombarded him with revelations of their experience. They talked nonstop about what being blind felt like and how they were so happy that they were blessed to have eyesight.
As I tucked them into bed that night, I sent up a pray of thanksgiving for my sighted children, asking the Lord to guide them in all areas of their life, no matter how hard or tasking it would be.
This lesson, along with numerous others, played a pivotal role in molding the lives of our daughters. Opting for homeschooling fostered an indelible bond between the girls and solidified their relationship as lifelong best friends. Even now, my daughters enthusiastically express that the years spent on that mountaintop imparted invaluable lessons. The most significant revelation was that family and school can exist successfully in the same sentence.
"A Year to Remember"
by Flora Posey
I saw myself bowing onstage in our senior play. I felt this was my class’s year to win the homecoming float award. The football team was going to win the championship. Maybe I would even be chosen as the class poet. I was determined my senior year would be unforgettable.
When my sister called on June 27th, 2002, I knew I had misheard her. “Cathy, the high school is on fire.” Those words didn’t register, but as I turned on the news and watched the screen fill with orange flames, I felt my heart fill with dread.
I could make out the outline of the building where I had spent the majority of the last three years of my life. It was not just on fire; it was consumed. As I sat there with my parents, I saw my senior year dreams burning up faster than the recently oiled wood floors.
The first few days after the fire, my world was in flux. I still had one year left in order to graduate, but where that year would be was still unknown.
A plan was soon in place to bring in portable trailers next to the elementary school gymnasium and keep the high school going.
In record time, the trailers were brought in and given wooden decks and a roof to connect a main deck. Open to the elements on the side, Alabama’s rainy weather that year made navigating the slick wooden ramps a test of faith and balance.
Each trailer had to accommodate at least twenty-five kids in a space made for fifteen. During the first rain, we watched as water leaked in from the electrical outlets, causing our already tight quarters to get even tighter as we all drew toward the center of the room.
As the year progressed, we began to unavoidably fall into a routine. All that changed, however, on November 10th 2002. It was my mother’s birthday and other than the pending bad weather, it was shaping up to be a great day.
When the weatherman predicted tornadoes that night, we didn’t think too much about it. One thing about Alabama's weather is it was consistently inconsistent. It would more than likely be a clear, cool evening. Oh, how wrong my assumptions were. The next morning, when I woke up, not only did a tornado come through my hometown, destroying the elementary school, but several people lost their lives.
Initially, no word came about the trailers sitting on the opposite side of the gym. But I knew tin and plywood wouldn’t stand a chance if a brick building was decimated.
I was done. I looked at my mother and told her to have the principal send me my diploma. There was no coming back from this.
Later that day, word finally came that the gym was still standing, and with the trailers in its shadow, they had been shielded from the tornado. I laughed at the irony and cried in relief. Yet, my school system was still down a school.
Once again, a plan was formed. We were given the rest of the week off, and then on Monday, the elementary and high school kids would share the trailers while more were brought in to accommodate the elementary.
There are only so many hours in a day and only so many buildings for everyone to use. The board decided the high schoolers would attend school from 8 a.m.- 12 p.m. while the elementary kids would go from 12 p.m.- 4 p.m.
Now, I know what you are thinking. That must have been epic! You only had to go to school four hours a day. Many kids thought so, and we had an influx of students transferring in from neighboring school systems. What no one realized, though, was that the same amount of material had to be covered that would have been covered in a normal school day.
In one month, the teachers sent us home with more homework than we had experienced in three months of school. Just as fast as students transferred in, they left.
Five weeks after the tornado, the elementary students were finally able to go to school in their own set of trailers. Never had I been more relieved to go to school for a full day.
We were in a unique situation. We were the only school system in Alabama to be entirely in trailers. Due to past experiences, when bad weather came, we didn’t hunker down in the hall with a book covering our heads. We were immediately sent home with promises that we would make up missed work the next day.
We did our best to find joy in the chaos of our senior year. Our class shirts read, “I graduated from Trailer Park High.” This unprecedented occurrence inevitably drew my class closer together, giving us a bond that is still there over 20 years later.
You may be wondering about the plans for my senior year. Well, we did not have a senior play. Our football team ran into some legal issues and was banned from the playoffs. There was no homecoming float award given. However, I did get chosen as the class poet, so one out of four isn’t bad, I guess.
Looking back at that year's good and bad, my senior year was not what I expected. It was often not what I wanted. But, in the end, it was one I will never forget. Maybe even more than that, it gives me a story to tell, and as a writer, that is a blessing in and of itself.
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