Descriptive Essay : Rivers Of Rhetoric
I can feel the eyes of my peers on my neck and my cheeks are burning bright red. The buzzing from the fluorescent lights fog my thoughts as I squirm in my seat, not used to being confined to a typical elementary school desk. I can’t stop getting chills, not because of the incoming blast of fog chilled north coast air, but because I’m nervous of what Ms. Morton will say. Her lips are pursed as she looks my scrawny sixth grade self up and down before she blithely asks, “what is a comma anyway?” I pause, look up, and say “I don’t know,” but here’s the thing: I didn 't need to yet.
One could say that I didn’t go to primary school in the most traditional environment. Located in the tiny coastal crossroad of Caspar, with a population of four hundred and surrounded by Pygmy and Redwood forest in all directions, I wasn’t exposed to the same educational life as the average five through eleven year old. For almost ten years I attended a school inside of an aging, two room, mobile home in the woods, with twenty eight other students and a rebellious teacher, Joanna, who forever changed the way I interact with, and learn about the world around me. While my public school peers were learning the anatomy of a sentence and researching how to trick the word count software on their new computers, I was learning how to make paper from scratch and write the scientific names of poisonous mushrooms.
The most important thing to know about Joanna was that she didn’t believe…