I Am Not Special. I Will Fail. A Personal Essay.

I was thirteen. I was in my seventh grade English class and my teacher had me convinced I was going to be no one. I would never be more than a janitor if that, he told me and nine other children in my class. Our state test scores and our personalities had shown it. We were too shy, too stupid, too lazy or too genetically unprepared to be successful in the real world.

A couple school boards in Maryland were going to be doing some experiments, he told us. It was getting harder to fund every student from kindergarten to twelfth grade. They had to make some budget cuts. Students that just didn’t have potential were going to be the ones receiving the cuts.

We would no longer get the textbooks to take home and we wouldn’t get homework anymore, so teachers didn’t have as many papers to grade. The other students that had potential would be the ones getting the attention. This way the district’s money would be going to the children who would do something good with their education. We were going to stay in school because that was the law, but we would see few of the benefits.

My teacher had rearranged the sitting chart and the classroom’s layout. Me and the nine other genetic losers were now sitting in the very back-end of the room. My friends looked back at me with sadness and pity. No one questioned it. Why would he lie about something like that?

So class began.

We had just begun to read “To Kill A Mockingbird.” We were reading allowed that day and my teacher was selecting the readers as we went.

The first student starts reading. She is sitting in the front of the classroom. She was my friend, Leslie.

It is Scout Finch’s first day at school and she is so excited to go.

The teacher stops Leslie and chooses Pierce to read next. He is silent and strange and does not have any friends, but he is up front too.

Scout is doing very well on her workbook, but her teacher is displeased. The teacher is making her feel guilty that her father had previously taught her how to read.

Why doesn’t it matter that I’m a great reader? I am not great at math, but my dad helps me work through my homework and I get good grades. How do they know I can’t do great things for society?

My teacher chooses Ian to read next. He’s in the back section with me.

Now Scout is sticking up to her teacher who insists on loaning money to one of the poor kids on account that he will pay her back. He will never be able to pay her back, Scout is trying to point out.

My teacher cuts Ian off. Exasperated he chose someone else to read. Ian was smart. He just stumbled over one of the words. It was a hard word.

He was being so mean to us. Just the 10 of us. He was being so helpful to the ones up front. "How is this possible?" I kept wondering.

We were being taught to our potential. That’s how. And mine was low.

Every class from now on was going to be hell. I wasn’t going to be able to be a lawyer if I couldn’t even get through high school. That’s what I wanted to be when I grew up then--a lawyer. Except now this man was telling me I couldn’t be. I wanted to go to college and law school, but now I was going to be a high school dropout.

How were my friends going to see me? Were they still going to accept me? They were surely going to talk about me behind my back. They definitely thought I was stupid.

They were sitting in the front section. How were they better than me? I was in harder classes than Leslie and Missy had a lot of depression issues lately. Why was I cutting my friends down? Why was he being so mean?

I began to cry. I was sobbing. He was ignoring me. The boy behind me, who I had never talked to before, was rubbing my back trying to console me. There was no consoling me. I was lost. Fifteen more minutes than class was over. It was not going to be the end of it though.

“Everyone,” my teacher suddenly announced, “this is all fake. You all have potential. You can all make it and class tomorrow will go back to normal. Everyone will be back in his or her seat assignments,” he encouraged. It came like a blow to the stomach. Just like that, I was okay.

It was a lesson. A lesson on what it meant to feel inferior. On what it was like to sit among a group and feel bad about yourself because of genetics. What it was like for African-Americans to feel persecuted in the classroom because of the color of their skin. It was a lesson in the way people feel when they speak different, when they look different, when they do not have as much money or are not able to do all the same things and are treated in a way anything less than they deserve.

My parents taught me to be kind to all. They did not talk poorly about people because of their race or class. They encouraged me to help those in need and to understand where they are coming from. Peer pressure and ego can get in the way of remembering that though, especially as a growing, insecure preteen.

I had never felt so inferior before that day. My parents, my teachers, my friends and even strangers could tell I was a hardworking child. They pushed me to my limits and encouraged me to always do my best. They let me know I could make it as long as I did my best. I felt inferior that day and for just less than an hour I knew what it was like to lose that hope.

To feel like no one believed in me. To feel like I had no future. To give up on myself.

I promised myself and my teacher (in our reflection paper) that day that I would not forget this lesson. For so many hope and encouragement does not come as it always had to me and now I knew how that could tear you down with nothing to build you back up. There were less fortunate than me and that day I realized how fortunate I really was.