There are many words an English Teacher can say that will strike fear into the hearts of students, but none are so terrifying as "Research Paper."
I remember dreading the announcement of a new project because I never wanted to hear those words. I hated doing most essays, but I REALLY hated research papers.
Now, I consider myself a person of average intelligence, but research gives me so much anxiety. Asking questions has never been something I've been good at, so asking an important question to research, asking the right questions to get answers and then being able to sift through all of the documents to find answers to said question isn't really one of my strong suits. I become a blithering idiot. It also didn't help that I had undiagnosed learning disabilities growing up, not to mention severe social and performance anxiety as well. I hate getting the courage to ask a question and then feeling like a total dummy because I didn't know or understand the answer. So I just skip all of that and suffer in silence.
There was one year, I believe it was ninth grade, that was particularly traumatizing for me.
I can't really remember what I was researching, it feels like it was a million years ago and it really isn't important to this story, but I remember being relatively proud of my work and very glad it was over and out of my hands. Writing papers like that really upsets me and I'm sure I had many meltdowns and tantrums at home.
A few blissful weeks had passed, we had moved on to other things, and I remember feeling a surge of unknown anxiety as I walked into the classroom that day. Weird, but not uncommon for me. The blinds had been drawn and the sickly orangey yellow color of the lights made the room feel dark and heavy. Ok. I am now officially feeling unsettled. The room slowly filled with students as they headed to their assigned seating. Mine was in the back by the door and the chatter from the hallway did nothing for my anxiety. The fact that the talking in the room was dull, muted and awkward didn't go unnoticed.
The bell rings. The teacher is still at her desk. She doesn't say hi to us, doesn't acknowledge our presence. She keeps shuffling papers into piles. Oh no. This isn't good. I can feel the calm frustration and disappointment oozing off of her and I startle as she clears her throat.
"Well. I've been grading your papers..." The hairs on the back of my neck begin to raise,"...and I'm not very happy." I dig my nails into my legs as she proceeds with the bad news.
"They were unorganized, they were badly written..." She continues slowly flipping through the pile of papers she has in her hand as her deadly calm voice rings through the room. "...Momes (She used my real name) here couldn't even spell her own last name correctly."
There it is. The thing my body was waiting for.
I tense up completely as the rest of the class slowly turns to stare at me. They laugh uncomfortably, but I can barely hear them. My vision is tunneling. My hearing sounds like I'm underwater. I'm not going to cry though. Shock and total mortification can have that effect sometimes.
She continues to berate us, but I've stopped listening. My eyes are still aimed at her, but I can't really see anything. My thoughts are racing. She just called me out in front of the entire class for misspelling my last name and now the whole class knows I'm an idiot.
I have always known my name would be the death of me. "E before I" instead of "I before E," who does that? The Germans, that's who! And ten letters!! What the fuck were they thinking?! And I proof read that paper so. many. times. But why...why didn't I think to check the heading. MY OWN LAST NAME!! I'm devastated. The paper hadn't even gotten started and I had lost five points.
I spent the rest of class staring at my desk.
It has been about 19 years since that happened and I still think about it way too often. The worst part, besides the fact that that day haunts me, is that she has no idea the damage she had done to me. Our whole lives we are taught the value and power of words. Words have weight. They can lift someone up and they can just as easily tear them down. This teacher didn't even think that announcing my mistake to the entire class would be traumatic for me. She didn't stop to think that maybe she should have pulled me aside instead.
She has long since retired from teaching and probably doesn't even remember this day. I will never be able to forget it.
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