Through the eyes of a sixteen year old: AP English

The rules and restrictions to the writing we believed to be a creative outlet.

AP English. It seemed like a good enough idea when I checked its box on a schedule sheet. The English classes they had subjected my peers and I to for the past ten years were recalled as child's play so of course when I was given the option to take the course in my junior year of high school I thought to myself, "Why the hell not?" So I checked that printed box next to the course name not realizing I had just signed myself over to a life of agony.
    When I was younger, I viewed English class as an escape. A haven from the scrutiny of my peers and teachers who didn't care. My English teachers always found my eagerness to write stories with plots so complex and beautifully jumbled charming and had no issues giving me good grades despite me falling asleep every ten minutes or so. I never fathomed that the class that gave me such comfort would one day be considered stressful or unwanted, so why did it become that way.
The answer dear reader is blatantly simple. The fun's been sucked right out of it.
      With systems that give teachers bonuses for the more students they pass, the need for creative stimulation is easily overshadowed. Please don't misunderstand though, if I had the opportunity to make more money, I would lunge at it head first regardless of what dangers I may crack my skull against. But that mentality, is what takes the joy out of it. When the AP English course started, I was genuinely excited. My teacher had that witty, satirical type of humor which I found profoundly enjoyable and the room with its records and jellyfish lining the walls gave me hope for the future. This was going to be a breeze! Or so I thought.
     Right away we began talking about the standardized test that was scheduled for some time in the next five months. Immediately I lost hope. The f*****g standardized test. The thing that teachers seemed to care about like their genitals were at stake and not the grades of students. Is that the case? Is the standardized testing system secretly threatening teachers with the consequences of a certain percentage of failing students? "If over twenty percent of your students fail, We'll cut your dick off." It wouldn't surprise me considering teachers seem more nervous than the students during testing season. When my teacher finished explaining her goals for the year, (or more importantly the test) I quickly raised my hand.
"So, a lot of times teachers focus more on teaching students HOW to test instead of what they're actually being tested on." I said it in the most tactful and respectful way that I could as to avoid seeming like that bitchy student who annoys the teacher by acting like they're always right. My teacher gave me an all-knowing smile before giving an answer to my question that was vague at best.
    Actually now that I think about it, maybe her answer wasn't vague. Maybe I was too preoccupied trying to interpret that sly, a*****e grin I've come to know so well. Over the past few months I've learned this teacher's mentality. How she uses her truly breathtaking skill of sarcasm to allude to her distaste for the public school system. She knew exactly what I was trying to say with my question slash comment and understood just how tiring such a system of learning could be. In that bitchy smile of hers, she was promising to not be one of those teachers and give the proper outlet our young blossoming minds needed!
*Hysterical laughter sounds in the distance*
      It was all lies. Every fantasy I had about what I believed to be the savior of a teacher that we all needed were proven to be just that. Fantasies. Granted these fantasies were played with in reality when my teacher would give thirty minute lectures on grammar rules and strategies that I had never heard of. However, this glimmer of hope quickly disappeared when after these thirty minute lectures she would hand out a multiple choice packet to prepare us on how test questions were set up. Oh the agony.
   About a month into the year my teacher got into the real s**t. The stuff that every English teacher seemed to dread more than I dread the idea of explaining my sexuality to people. The stuff that the college board seems to pick at with a fine toothed comb. Essays. F*****g essays. We had all been exposed to these things that caused greater headaches than hangovers but we didn't think there was much need for fuss. Then the outlines were placed in front of us and we were given the following instructions.

Follow these outlines.
Commit these outlines to memory.
Live by these outlines.
Die for these outlines.
Bleed these outlines.
Do anything for these outlines.
Always suck the dick of these outlines.
Never lose these outlines.

    Sure those weren't her exact words but most of it was true, Including the "Never lose these outlines."
Needless to say, I lost those f*****g outlines. It may have been for my complete lack of organization or the fact that every fiber of my being despised those damn outlines more than the devil despises the bible. I expressed my lack of approval to anyone who would listen. The complaint would always begin the same way. "F*****g Mrs. C******!" Then I would begin my rant that is usually made better by my friend who is much wittier than I. She instructed us to always follow these outlines and I hated every moment of it. As she gave us more outlines, I contemplated on ways that could tell her how much I hated those things without actually saying I hated those things. Eventually I decided that instead I would just spite her, as is the teenager way. If we don't like it, we begin rebelling against it while wearing a Guy Fawkes mask.
    My method for rebelling against my teacher and her ever oppressing college board outlines was this: With each essay that my teacher assigned us, I would progressively write in poorer quality. The essays would become nothing more than bullshit masquerading as an essay, but it would follow those forsaken outlines to the letter. It was as much of a way to spite my teacher and her outlines as it was an experiment for me. How far could I go? Would she still give these high scores to me even if my writing downgraded to nothing more than mindless dribble?
    No, no she would not.
    No, my teacher caught on to my sly little scheme and began lowering my scores after the first few spite essays. She lowered my scores from A's to B's, then B's to C's with breathtaking speed. My peers and I questioned our scores giving the evidence that we had followed those awful outlines. My teacher's response to our complaints was that our quality of writing had decreased so she wouldn't reward sub-par work. She said this all with that a*s-hole grin of her and I writhed in my front row seat. As much as her argument pissed me off, it also gave me hope. In this action, my teacher had shown me that even though the school district had attempted to crush her spirit under the weight of outlines, she still had that same witty, sarcastic teaching mentality I had seen in that smug-a*s smile one the first day of school.
     But did that deter me from trying to inconspicuously boycott these outlines? Of course it didn't.
     Even though I had come to the conclusion that she was indeed a good teacher, my pride wouldn't let me quit. I had to see this through to end. I needed to hear my teacher say that these outlines were terrible. So terrible in fact that she would rather burn at the stake then teach them. So I devised a new plan. A plan that I was willing to forsake my grades for but would finally prove my absolute hatred for these outlines!
     I wouldn't follow them. Not even in the slightest.
     This plan may have come about from the fact that I lost those sacred outlines right after she handed them out and had been using my neighbors. The first essay she assigned after that gave us the choice to pick a side and argue it while following yet another outline. I grasped my pencil with the force of the gods and wrote my heart out. It was an argument I could relate to strongly and wrote the best essay I could. I slammed the paper into the collection tray so hard that everyone looked my way. When their eyes met mine, I gave them a look that said, "I wish a mother f****r would try to say s**t," and they all sunk their heads in understanding. When our essays were returned to us, I waited all too eagerly to see my score. I can't remember my grade accurately, but there's a 50/50 chance I got a 50 on that essay. It burned my very core to see such a grade and the note scribbled in red ink above it.
"Didn't follow outlines."
     Thus started the revolution. Every essay she handed out after that had us take a stand and argue against the other and on every essay she handed out I repeated the process. Bleed onto the paper, hand it in like I was a thug, then receive an awful grade along with the note, "Didn't follow outlines." It was the dictionary definition of insanity. After doing this for a while, my teacher caught on to my rebellion of one and decided to retaliate. She assigned a project shortly after where we rewrite a children's book and the assignment came with a detailed list of instructions. I could risk the classwork grades that the essays counted for, but I wasn't about to risk a project grade. I did my absolute best work, disregarding my rebellion momentarily to do the project. I followed the page of instructions only to realize on the due date that there were two pages of instructions and that I had lost the second page before the period she handed them out in even ended. I scrambled to write what I had missed and turned it in with sweaty palms. I heard horror stories about how she graded a few in front of students at their request and how it would often end in tears. I wasn't phased though. I was confident in my abilities.
    I failed that f*****g project. Miserably. Above my beautiful illustration that I had worked so hard on were the most dreaded three words in my vocabulary. "Didn't follow outlines." This is when English class stopped being fun. I abandoned my plan for rebellion and followed the outlines. Even with my new found respect (more like new found desperation to redeem my grade) I still failed the assignments. I believe that I was being punished for my past transgressions. I'm surprised that my teacher didn't write those three words on normal assignments like quizzes just to f**k with me. With my obligations piling up on top of me and the end of the grading cycle drawing near, I dragged myself up the four flights of stairs to her room for tutoring.
    Her room is always packed and I waited for everyone else to leave so that they didn't hear anything about my grade. When the room was cleared, I approached her desk as though I were on death row. To my surprise, she smiled warmly at me. She told me about how she had no time due to everyone needing tutoring and her being asked to write college recommendation letters. It reminded me about how I needed a recommendation letter for my exchange program to Japan in the summer. She told me that after she finished the letters for seniors, she'd be happy to do so. I didn't take much from this. I figured teachers wrote letters for students even if they got poor grades like I was. Before we started our tutoring began a story about a senior who asked her to write a letter of recommendation to which my teacher asked, "Are you sure you want me to write a letter?" She informed me that the girl made decent grades but didn't try in the class. She explained that when students like that asked for letters, she always answered, "Are you sure you want me to write your letter?" Because she told the truth about the student, whether it made them look bad or not. She finished her story by saying, "Do you see what I'm trying to say?" I stared at her blankly recalling our conversation in high speed for any hints about the stories purpose I may have missed. Then it dawned on me. I made poor grades in her class due to me being rebellious and I admit that was all my fault, but I also tried very hard on the rest of the assignments. When I asked for the letter she said she'd be happy to do so. I smiled while looking away from her, silently praising her clever tactic and nodded in understanding. When I looked at her again, I  gave her my own version of that smug-a*s, bitchy, cunning, sly, a*****e smile that she had given me the first day.

This is when English class became fun again.

Author's Note

Foul language