A Paper...

What?

Eager to see how my brutal eight pages on a paper about politics and something-else-I-really-didn't-care-about turned out, I flipped through the pages like they were burning matches to look for any signs of that dreadful color we all know and hate - red.

Sometimes my mind wanders to the beginnings of the red pen; I imagine some guy just sitting in his office, feet propped up, in the back of a factory somewhere, "Well, we've done black, blue, and green... What next? HEY, let's do red! Everyone likes red, right?" Wrong, pen man. Red pen has become the universal symbolism of everything wrong: "fragment," "paragraph too short," "Where's your thesis statement, anyway?"

Eyes glazing over with thoughts of the history of the red pen, I suddenly realize there isn't a trace of red pen on my paper. In fact, there is no grade, no commentary at all. Confused, I race to my college professor's side, stating promptly, "I don't have a grade. Is something wrong?" Apparently, a lot of things were wrong. The paper held no argument, no thesis statement, and was too "artsy" for the assignment. "It isn't finished," he said, "I'll grade it when it's done. Try again."

I went home, walking a little louder and faster than normal, bewildered by the statement. "Too artsy? Is there even such a thing?" I wondered. Apparently this guy didn't know that I was an English major, and that writing was my thing. I read my paper over and over again, looking for any trace of something that could be re-worked to my professor's satisfaction.

Nothing.

Even as painful as the paper was, I felt like I nailed it. Sure, I was being narcissistic. Of course, there's always room for improvement. The problem was, I wasn't told what to improve; I was just told that I had better. There's nothing worse than being criticized over something you don't understand.

In one day, my view of myself as a writer came crashing down, my fragile ego bruised. I became more and more infuriated by my lack of success in that composition course that I actually changed majors from English to English Education. I thought that is these were the kinds of professors I would deal with, who quickly made writing a painful experience (and not in a "pleasure is pain" kind of way), it wasn't a good fit. I look back now and wonder if my always-thick skin had gone on vacation that semester.

So what?

I feel that in a twisted, didn't-see-that-one-coming kind of way, that professor was a blessing. He offered criticism with a side of harsh reality served up extra-cold. That meal was awful at the time, but had an after-taste that I will never forget. I learned that maybe I wasn't made of steel like I once had thought, that even the only thing that I am confident in is, in fact, subjective, and that you can't please everybody.

In learning those things, I realized something greater: I can be the conduit for a changed perspective in writing. I can teach students how to love to write. I can show them that writing isn't just a hobby, but it is a best friend, a walk down memory lane, a chat with a stranger, and most importantly, writing is free therapy.

So what if my spine wasn't quite as strong as I imagined? Maybe it was my secretive weakness that granted me more powerful words.

And so what if I didn't create the perfect argumentative essay? When I write, I feed my soul, and sometimes I can even heal other's.