The High Cost of Creativity

Teachers ask students to be creative and then chastise the ideas cultivated. Seventh grade was the strangest year in school. One teacher was transferred in the middle of the year. Another was on leave.

Through various substitutes that English class became the focal point of the day. Asked to write a story beginning with "I was there when" led me to describe a story about a giant slime who ate the world.

Schlock was a slime that ate everything in sight. Sort of like The Blob with an ounce of humanity. The first one surprised me. As I read the story to the class I cracked myself up. Rookie mistake.

Laughing at your own jokes relieves the audience from engaging. That reminds me of Adam Sandler era Saturday Night Live: the worst that show ever was. Jimmy Fallon cracked during sketches. The show was better and the first Debbie Downer sketch was enhanced by the cast breaking character.

A more permanent substitute came to the class. She should have taught us the remainder of the year. Not only did I continue to write stories about this slime: incorporating vocabulary words to keep it relevant: she noted how well I did at public speaking.

The opportunity arose and she lit a candle, fondly recalled many years later. The official teacher returned and cursed the darkness. The story was his wife was undergoing cancer treatment. That is traumatic. Bringing him back to work led to poorly planned classes, anger, irritability and a drop in quality.

My seventh grade stories were topical. The teacher who was transferred was very nice and a good teacher. Her replacement was very strict. Teaching with an iron fist does not lead to learning. I said that she should be sent to Siberia.

Other teachers did not approve. How could we respect anyone who said we were the worst class she ever taught? Chances are she said that to every class, benefiting no one. I was pulled in two directions.

Creativity was real to me. Girls liked me because I could do something. Guys wanted to be around me because I was sharp. My grades were not as good as the last year. Seventh grade is more accelerated than sixth. I acclimated in January to have my main teacher replaced.

Changing horses midstream was a poor decision from the Diocese. The English teacher felt like I was wasting my potential. Treating me like a commodity made my life feel over before it began.

An emergency conference was called. Going to the school at night was scary and very dark. My parents were brought in with this teacher and myself. Conferences usually are between the parents and teachers. This gave him the chance to berate me in private.

He labelled me with a word I shall not mention here. It wasn't a curse yet saying it in front of my parents who believed in the infallibility of teachers (if the Pope called me in I would have accepted what he said, not to mention a trip to The Vatican.) served as the vampire moment of my life. Suck all the blood out of my creativity or walk the earth eternally as a creature of the night.

The phrase was terse. If I improved and took grades seriously, it would be expected. There is no accomplishment when you are supposed to do well. Interestingly: this was the first year where memorizing became part of the curriculum.

Knowing a poem by heart had no resonance in my life. Creating something that many people enjoyed was real and inspired more. I would do well in Debate and Public Speaking for that very reason. Since I had the same parents who recalled that word that was occasionally repeated: I was damaged goods even with 100 test scores.