Mr. Pease is also my English teacher.
I’m so glad he doesn’t tell me to stand up in this class
and answer three questions.
“Welcome back from vacation,” he says.
His bow tie is crooked, like a propeller ready to spin,
and I imagine him soaring above our heads.
“Did I say something funny, Mimi?” he asks,
and in my mind Mr. Pease drop-lands on his
desk.
I shake my head.
“Stand up, please,” he says. “We have fun in my class,
but we work hard
and we don’t tolerate clowns.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, and sit down again.
Feet shuffle on the floor,
and voices around me murmur, “Wooo.”
“From now until the end of the year, you’ll be keeping a journal,”
he says, handing out spiral notebooks from a stack on his desk.
“You’ll write, draw, collage, or whatever you want.
But you’ll do it at least three times a week.”
“Do we have to show them to you?” asks a girl beside me.
“Do I see a hand, Barbara?” he asks.
Vermont teachers are stricter than teachers in Berkeley.
Barbara raises her hand. “Do we have to show them to you?”
“You’ll turn them in before the end of the year.”
I raise my hand, and Mr. Pease nods.
“What do we write about?”
“Whatever you want.”
I raise my hand again, and he says, smiling, “You still have the floor.”
“What kind of writing can we do?”
He leans forward. “Whatever you want, as long as I can read it.
Experiment, try something new.”
“Like poetry?” someone asks.
“As long as I can read it.”
I know
exactly what I will write in my journal for Mr. Pease,
and by June, he’ll understand better
who I am.