Susan B Coombs Jr. High School. Seventh Grade. Miss Davies. Homeroom.
We were given a woodcut/Rorschach image to view, then write a poem.
I don’t remember the poem. But Miss Davies told the class that we had a fine writer and poet in our class, then read my poem. My ears blazed. I felt like crawling under my desk–I didn’t know how to take a compliment, but I was good at shame.
Still, she gave me the right to tell stories. She made me legitimate in public. I started telling jokes among friends, relating incidents, recapping a TV show. Even when my friends said that something I said was stupid, I had Miss Davies’ declaration. I believed it. I wish I could find her, so I could tell her how much she meant to me.
A couple weeks later, I lost control of a giant fart in class. It took a long time to live that one down. But I’m still a writer.