The student and teacher I have become

As I grade—and teach—I am surprised at what my students do and do not know. For example, why don't students who placed into the Intermediate Writing Workshop at a "good" university not know how to recognize passive voice (and instead write in active voice)? That's something I learned in ninth grade!

Ah, ninth grade. The year I reached the 5-foot mark. The year my teeth were liberated from three years' orthodontia. And, of course, the year I had Ms. Berk. That heinous bitch.

Ms. Berk, the Devil's sister, was my ninth grade English teacher. Until that point, I had loved English class (known until then as "Language Arts")—I had excelled in writing and read voraciously. I was nothing but optimistic about English class when I entered my first year of high school.

Not only did I not do well in Ms. Berk's class, but she also told me that I should not expect to do well—ever. (This was, in fact, when I spoke to her about my abysmal Romeo and Juliet reading quiz, when I went to her for extra help; she told me, "You'll never get [Shakespeare]; you're just not an English student.")

Luckily for me, I work best out of spite. I have never understood students who didn't do work because they hated the teacher—wasn't that just a favor to the teacher?—so I worked. And worked. And worked. I compelled myself to be the obsessive-compulsive overachiever I am today, just to prove to Ms. Berk that she was wrong: I could do it.

Needless to say, my self-inflicted ass kicking worked. I excelled throughout English classes in high school and college, became (if I do say so myself) an exemplary high school teacher, and now a respected writing professor. So neener neener, Ms. Berk.

I have mentioned my experiences in Ms. Berk's class to countless students I have taught, mostly to tell them that they too can learn and love Shakespeare. (Because, a decade later, I still operate out of spite, I had hung a large scroll in the back of my classroom that proclaimed I was a Shakespeare Convert, and upon which over forty students signed their names beneath mine.) I have told a number of these students that I have learned more from Ms. Berk than all my good teachers combined because she was the type of teacher I hope I will never become.

In my fourth year of teaching, however, I've had more time to think about this statement. I may have demonized Ms. Berk too much. She did legitimately make me a better writer. Every PV scrawled by her cheap green pen challenged me to write and think in active voice. Her research unit forced me to read and digest the MLA Handbook when I was fourteen years old. I wrote and revised and rewrote every paper. I pored over every word of the texts assigned so that I could dominate class discussion the next morning. Because of her criticism, I pushed myself to be the student she said I couldn't become. And I learned. I still do not accept Ms. Berk's classroom (or student) management strategies, but she was the teacher who taught me more than any other.

Mother Tongue

I have always told my students that they were lucky to be native English speakers on the grounds that English is such a difficult language to learn. (Most of my native speakers, past and present, had a poor grasp of English, spoken or written.) As a wise man once said, "English doesn't borrow from other languages. English follows other languages down dark alleys, knocks them over, and goes through their pockets for loose grammar."

While I was washing the dishes a moment ago—I do most of my thinking during otherwise mindless tasks—I realized that there is another, far greater reason that I am fortunate to be a native English speaker.

Shakespeare wrote in my language.

Ok, so what? For the first time, this semester I have a number of international students. In fact, in a single class there are at least four languages spoken other than English. I admire them for their hard work—they, of course, are held to the same standards as my native speakers—but now I actually feel some sort of pity for them. If these students have read any Shakespearean plays, they were likely translated into their native language.

The very idea makes me wretch. A translation of Shakespeare?! Although English is not the most beautiful language in existence, Shakespeare made it beautiful with his meter. I cannot imagine that even the romance languages could rival the sound of a play written in our eclectic tongue.