Something Beautiful
In which Ellen finds her voice
Original? sprawled in stark, red letters across the top of the page of each of the four stories I had submitted to the substitute teacher, accompanied by big, fat zeroes. My face burned with underserved shame, matching, I was certain, the scarlet ink that called me out for a crime I had not committed.
Plagiarism. The substitute glared at me over John-Lennon glasses as she dropped the sheets onto my desk. “Principal’s office after class,” she said, her disapproval writ in every inch of her oh-so-perfect skin.
She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, yet she reminded me of the caricatures of bitter librarians who hated any hint of enjoyment within the hallowed halls of the libraries they haunted, their own lives sere and joyless.
“Yes, Miss,” I replied, my eyes glued to red ink on the pages before me.
Kirsty, my best friend, glared at me from the seat ahead, trying to command me to speak up. To tell this awful woman that I was editor of the school fiction magazine and that I had already won writing awards before even reaching high school.
I couldn’t. Long on imagination and short on confidence. That described me to a T. I had only submitted my first stories to magazines because Mr. Grant, my grade seven teacher, had pushed me. I was only editor of the school magazine because Ms. Kilworth had asked me to do it when no one else had stepped up.
I hid my face for the rest of the class as Kirsty seethed in front of me, refusing to answer the sub, even when directly asked a question. The bell rang to signal the end of the period. The sub once again pinioned me with her glare, collecting me up with her eyes as she strode from the classroom.
Kirsty moved to my side, but I shook my head, mouthing the words, “Go to class.” She shot a filthy look at the sub’s retreating back but didn’t follow.
Ms. Finch, our principal, was waiting for us. Apparently, the sub had booked an appointment. “Miss Weir tells me you plagiarized your stories.” She held out her hand for the offending papers, never taking her eyes from my face.
She tapped her red pen on her desk as she read them, one by one, no hint of reaction to give away her thoughts. She looked to the sub, back at me, then back to the sub. My heart thudded dully in my chest as I fought back tears.
“You should have spoken with me before accusing Ellen of plagiarism,” Ms. Finch said. “I could have told you that she is the most talented writer to ever attend this school. This kind of assumption kills the desire to excel.”
As the sub looked on, her eyes widening with each stroke of the principal’s pen, I watched the words could anything be more appear before the word original on the first story. A one and another zero joined the ugly zero already sitting on the page. Each of the other three stories underwent the same treatment.
My heart soared as Ms. Finch again addressed the sub. “Think before you assume a student can’t excel, Miss Weir. You’ll be a better teacher for it.” I shrank back when she turned granite eyes on me. “And you, young lady, need to find some backbone. Others can’t fight your battles for you.”
I was just wondering how I would find this mythical backbone which had eluded me all my life, when Ms. Finch added, “Use your imagination. Create the hero you want to be, and then become it.”
Imagination. I could do this. I made myself meet Miss Weir’s eyes, my mind already churning with possibilities. “Thank you,” I said to her. “Those zeroes might be the start of something beautiful.
For some reason, a memory surfaced today (meaning the day of writing) of a substitute teacher I had for a few weeks in grade seven when my regular teacher was away having surgery. My usual teacher loved my writing and nurtured my ability. He was great! The sub made the assumption that my stories couldn’t be original because they were too good for a grade seven student. She wrote exactly what appeared on the pages in this story.
She did not, however, march me to the principal’s office or even speak to me about the stories. I was shy and lacked confidence in those days (I know, hard to believe, right?), and said nothing.
When my regular teacher returned, he changed the marks without my approaching him. He commented to me that the sub had not believed I could have written such imaginative stories. A backhanded compliment perhaps?
Regardless, that memory became the inspiration for this story today. So, thank you, substitute teacher whose name I have long forgotten!
It's incredible the power that teachers have to shape lives for good or ill!
I had a teacher claim that I had plagiarized another student's essay because I submitted it on yellowed (aged) paper. I was too embarrassed to tell her that it was hand-me-down paper from one of my dad's bosses kids' because we could not afford to purchase paper at that time. I insisted it was an original story, but she was always suspicious and I was always embarrassed.