And as per usual, whenever we were given an assignment, you’d find me back in the corner of the classroom, facing outside, uninterrupted. Ms. Swaiko, my teacher, often found it odd. My middle school teachers (and it continued all through high school) complained I talked too much in class; moving my seat never helped. However, I never thought Ms. Swaiko suspected a thing. I held myself in high regard, believing I was very skilled at appearing focused while effectively doing something else simultaneously. I’d quickly hide the paper, creating A-1 excuses such as: taking notes, doing homework ahead of time, or whatsoever.
Anyway, during one class, we had to do an outline for a project. Ms. Swaiko knew how much I loathed doing outlines, yet, that day I went on my merry way to my usual spot. Too puzzled, she decided to sneak up behind me, peeking over my shoulder, before tapping me on the shoulder.
I froze. Busted. My cover is blown. I’ve been discovered that I was secretly writing.
If you ever had Ms. Swaiko, you’d know her wrath if a student doesn’t do what she says. Also, if you knew me at thirteen, you’d know my wrath if I had to stay after school (right after school was the prime time of the day to grab a quick visit with the high school boys). It was like the capital punishment. Yet, I accepted my consequence and met with Ms. Swaiko to finish the outline; when I was done, she gave me a note to give my mother.
Ugh. Shit. As if staying after school wasn’t a punishment enough.
However, I delivered the letter to Mom that evening. She did a HUGE sigh and gave me her best what-did-you-do-this-time face before opening it. Just as I started to explain myself, Mom broke into a smile and nodded her head; after reading it, she handed me the note I hold dear to this day:
Sue --
You have a writer for a daughter
N. Swaiko
At thirteen, I never once regarded myself as a ... writer. To me, I simply wrote. I wrote because I wanted to. I wrote because I needed to. I wrote because it was something I loved doing. I wrote about everything that came to me: my tween privations, boy crushes, the Holocaust, being a child of divorce... that didn’t change when I, at seventeen, would find myself hiding in bathroom stalls during PE with my notebook and a pen in hand.
Remember the time I opened my hope chest?
Do you ever feel you were the most you when you’re younger? Because if anything, that’s me being the most me possible. These days, I feel I have to be watered down or ‘less intense’ version of myself- both when interacting and writing.
No more.
I have a lot to say. Oh you bet I do... yet I think it’s a good time to confess I’ve outgrown this blog, hence me being neglectful towards this. I’m relocating to Wordpress (which is still in the works).
Ah. New, fresh chapter.
So long!
Sue --
You have a writer for a daughter
N. Swaiko
At thirteen, I never once regarded myself as a ... writer. To me, I simply wrote. I wrote because I wanted to. I wrote because I needed to. I wrote because it was something I loved doing. I wrote about everything that came to me: my tween privations, boy crushes, the Holocaust, being a child of divorce... that didn’t change when I, at seventeen, would find myself hiding in bathroom stalls during PE with my notebook and a pen in hand.
Remember the time I opened my hope chest?
Do you ever feel you were the most you when you’re younger? Because if anything, that’s me being the most me possible. These days, I feel I have to be watered down or ‘less intense’ version of myself- both when interacting and writing.
No more.
I have a lot to say. Oh you bet I do... yet I think it’s a good time to confess I’ve outgrown this blog, hence me being neglectful towards this. I’m relocating to Wordpress (which is still in the works).
Ah. New, fresh chapter.
So long!
