Narrative Essay On The English Student

1313 Words 5 Pages
The English Student

It was a Tuesday morning during the third period when I met my Sophomore English teacher, Mrs. Carol Hughes. I started judging her thinking that she didn’t know how to teach since she taught at a high school considered ghetto. During class, I was usually disruptive and Mrs. Hughes had so much patience that she wouldn’t say a word. She kept calling me to answer questions about pronouns, adjectives, and nouns. I remember leaning back on my chair as if I was the instructor dictating the class. The last question she asked, I answered correctly. She looked at me and said, “Very well, I see that you know what you are doing in class.” I was extremely confused since I didn’t know if she was sarcastic or giving me a
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Hughes, with details of how I felt. The letter was more like an essay about what really happened on March 27, 2013. The letter was about feeling like it was a happy morning when I walked into class. The day somehow transitioned to a day of distraught, a day that I couldn’t cry because I couldn’t process or let the words of grief sink in. I was confused, I was angry. I felt like I was in hell, I felt like this place where I was at was filled with desolation, no hope and it was the end of the world. I too thought that I was going to die. Mr. Calderon, my seventh-grade teacher asked someone to help me go outside, but at the moment, I just wanted to be alone. I told him that I was going to be fine alone so I sat at the playground. I never had someone so close to me passing away and the emotions I felt were running through a maze, trying to look for the center where my heart was at. Unfortunately, all were lost and I felt nothing for two hours. When I was finally alone, all of my emotions found the center of my heart and sprinted so fast that my heart shattered into a million pieces. I couldn’t cope with it and it felt as if sorrow drugged me and put me to sleep. Mrs. Hughes looked at me while the class read Fahrenheit 451. Out loud, Mrs. Hughes said, “Sharon, I need to see you after class.” Everyone looked at me and cringed their nose and looked sorry for me. When class ended, I remained …show more content…
She smiled at me. I realized that it mattered to my English teacher having me write with passion. She always encouraged me to write and didn’t give me a limit; I grew an immense passion for writing. I remember how my mind would build up anxiety and adrenaline rush through my thin veins when somebody told me to write an essay; I felt as if I was riding the highest and steepest roller coaster that I have ever ridden. Mrs. Hughes, the glorious miracle-worker, made my fear vanish. I remember that everyone in the class would dread when our Mrs. Hughes said that we had to write an essay based on a book we read in class. I, on the other hand, would be excited to write what I thought about the book; I felt like a book critic. In fact, that is what Mrs. Hughes called me throughout the school year. My experience in learning to be fond of writing came through what inhabited in my heart which was the death of a great friend. If it weren’t for Mrs. Hughes, I would think that writing would still be mundane and there is no point of expressing perspectives through

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