The Scholarly "Pick Me"

An Essay

From the first time I met my fifth grade teacher her I was in awe of her. She was effortlessly cool, refusing to speak to us like children and constantly entertaining us with stories of her radical activist past. She even made a point to refuse to have her picture taken because, as she put it, “There are people who want to know where I am and we can’t let them.” In a few short months, she had gone from teacher to icon in my mind. Nine-year-old me decided that I had to impress this woman no matter what, so when she took an interest in my writing, I decided that was my chance. She was amused by my use of the word “peculiar” in an essay so going forward I made sure to sneak it in as much as possible. Then she said it was too much, so I stopped. In a note, she said that I have a good understanding of setting, so during short story assignments I made sure to harp on any “lush, rolling hills” and “wind whipping wistfully around buildings”. She seemed pleased with that so now all of my short stories up until today linger a little long on the setting (despite the fact that I’d rather write anything else).

This continued until about a few months before the end of the year. She had provided us with strips of paper that had random sentences typed on them, telling us to turn those sentences into an essay. Clearly most of us in the class didn’t get it myself included, so we literally organized the sentences into a coherent-ish essay. The day after we turned them in, she released a few kids to recess and kept the rest of us behind. For the rest of us, she scolded us for not writing anything original or doing any research when we got home to make sure the facts were correct. This took the whole of recess. I remember reading the “I’m so disappointed in you” note over and over again, feeling absolutely gutted. It felt I’d failed her. Unfortunately, be it societal pressure or general expectation of me, I was incapable of learning from that moment and I decided that I just can’t disappoint anyone with my writing ever again. Please tell me you see the issue in that.

I’m convinced school in America is designed to break you. The more you break, the more they can mold the pieces to make sure you’re the best capital-producing citizen a billionaire could hope for. If you struggle to get it, there is a never ending parade of embarrassment and shame waiting for you. If you succeed, the goal-post will be moved to minimize your success. If you crush the competition and stand at the top of your class, more often than not you would’ve had to burn bridges to do it, which is weird and annoying. I fell into this trap too many times to count. Especially in my “English” classes. I would have similar assignments from year to year with the only variation being the personal preferences of the teacher who assigned them. I’d crave their approval, figure out their tastes, write to them, then pass but fail to grow. I’d lost touch with writing completely.

By the time I had an English teacher I could actually learn from, I was almost 18 and about to graduate high school. I had become so disillusioned with writing that I had stopped writing on my own and had convinced myself that I was going to spend my life as a scientist who “changed the world” (as if I couldn’t do that with pen and paper). The college essay process didn’t help, as it was more tailoring to specific tastes. Only, instead of essays analyzing a work’s literary devices, I was tailoring my own traumas for the opportunity to go to a school and gain more of them. All along, learning that writing was simply pleasing your audience long enough for them to leave you alone and stop expecting anything else. No enjoyment necessary. So of course, it only made sense for me to jump back into writing by dusting off my pen, hard-launching myself in a format I was completely new to, and write for an audience that I couldn’t see or predict.

I will say that while I love writing for Substack, the process has been harrowing at times. I’m always wrestling with this immense feeling of pressure to be entertaining, or to make sure that my writing is always at the highest level possible, whatever that means. It’s almost as if I need to seem like this accomplished and perfect writer with fresh ideas all the time. In many ways it feels like I’m still applying to school. Or trying to get my elusive teacher to think I’m deserving of star stickers on my essays. However, in these 7 months on Substack in particular, I’ve come to a realization that has completely freed me. I am not that good. Nowhere near. I am not the perfect writer that doesn’t exist except in my head. My ideas can be stale and my essays are never long enough and I allow too much of my inner dialogue in my writing. But I’m writing. I’m actually doing it and that’s more than I can say for the version of myself that gave up entirely. So I’ll continue to write what I want, write what I need, and trust that the correct audience for me has found my work. It’s so much better than the alternative.