Just An Essay
Rachel Anne Wallace
CHAPTER 1 JUST ANOTHER ESSAY
Mrs. Ford stood before her community college English Composition class and smiled as she started to hand back the graded essays. When she finished she held a single sheet of paper in her hand.
"Last week I asked all of you to write an essay of any length dealing with what makes you special. I have been teaching this class for twenty-one years and have asked my students to write on this same topic each year. There have always been some excellent essays and this class is no exception, in fact, it provided the best essay ever. Most of you wrote extended explanations, some of you wrote several pages. But the very best essay this time was the shortest. I seldom read an essay a student has written to the entire class, but I'm making an exception this time as it is but five short paragraphs in length. It's entitled- '
On Being Special'
."
Being special is not the same as being different. We are all that. We have different parents, siblings, friends, and teachers. We come from families that are well to do, not so well to do, and poor. We are different from each other in the way we view the world, in what we are interested in and experience, and what we value. Sometimes being different is hard, sometimes not. But being special is not something you can do for yourself. You can't truly make yourself special. You can only make yourself different to the degree you choose to be.
Being special is something others see in you. Someone who thinks you are special most often will not tell you to your face you are. Your parents may think you're special for a particular trait, or ability. Your friends for other reasons, acquaintances, and strangers yet for other reasons. Others whom you will never meet may consider you special too.
Many teachers made me feel special. They appreciated me in ways others didn't. They watched me through eyes that saw my potential --my future worth. They gave me strength to accept the fact I am different from all others and that being different is not, in and of itself, a bad thing. Indeed, it can be very good.
I have a girlfriend who says I'm like the younger sister she has always wanted. We share things that only girls divulge to one another and know it will be safe. She is my window into the feminine world. She is the keeper of my secrets and I of hers. To her I am special. I am special to three different men for different reasons. I know this as one is not of my own race. He protects me and makes sure I'm well fed when I'm at work. The other thinks I'm special as I show up to work each and every day. He knows I put my best effort in on his behalf each time. I know I'm special to him as he rewards me through my paycheck. Finally, I'm special to another man for reasons I don't fully understand. He makes me laugh, he makes me cry, he tries to make the world a better place for me. He tells me I am pretty and intelligent. He makes me feel good about myself.
So, how do you know you're special? What do all of these people who make me feel special have in common? It's simple really, they treat me with respect and dignity. It's not something I can give to myself. It is only in that way I'm special at all.
Mrs. Ford lowered the paper from in front of her--the class was silent. They all knew who had written the essay. Janet felt small and large at the same time. It was a very strange place to be, even for her. Mrs. Ford released the class and several of her classmates gave her quiet praise as they walked past. Just a few words from each of them. But it loomed large in her mind. Janet picked up her books and looked up. Mrs. Ford was smiling as she handed the essay to her.
"Janet Hendersen. Someday, I will see your name in print. I'm sure many times and each time I do, I'll know I'm special. Thank you."
CHAPTER 2 JUST ANOTHER DAY
Two weeks earlier Janet had sat looking over the comments made by the instructor of her English Composition class. The comments were glowing with a letter grade of "A" marked in red pen at the right hand margin. She had been awarded the highest grade in the class for the quality and style of her written work.
It had won her admiration and disdain in equal measures from her fellow students. She could never understand the negative response as the instructor didn't grade on a curve. Her instructor, Evelyn Ford, awarded points for correct spelling, grammar, and adherence to the instructions set out for each assignment.
Fifteen points out of one hundred were given for authenticity and creativeness; enough to tip a grade from one to another. Janet had been awarded all of them by Mrs. Ford each time.
Janet looked around the library and saw fellow students talking quietly, including several from her composition class. As usual, no one elected to join her and Janet knew why. Her family wasn't the poorest in town, but nearly so. Her alcoholic father, a handyman, was known for more than the work with his hands. It was rumored women willing to be intimate as partial payment for his services were thusly rewarded.
Janet wanted to stay in the library as long as she could--it was her safe place. A place where the world waited to be discovered and explored in comfort and peace. A place that welcomed her despite her hand-me-down clothes and lack of financial resources. Her library card was the gateway to her dreams of a life filled with wonder and relative comfort. But reality always had a way of finding her as she glanced at the clock.
She picked up her armload of books, went out the door, and down the hallway to the bus stop. The bus would take her within three blocks of her home. It was the last stop at the edge of town-- the poor side of town.
She was halfway down the hall when a book slipped out of the stack. Janet tried but failed to stop the loss of the rest of them. She found herself standing with but her laptop, binder, and a single book in her hands. She started to bend down to pick them up as several male students passed by without offering to help-- almost three years past high school graduation and they treated her the same.
Janet stooped to collect them, but stopped when a hand reached out to gather them up. She looked up to find an older student crouched low. She started to stand with two books in her hand as he did the same, placing them atop the others. She stood for a few seconds, then smiled. He was actually quite handsome, hazel eyes, brown hair, with a smile that beguiled her.
"Thank you, that was very kind of you."
"My pleasure," as he quickly excused himself saying he had to get to class.
Janet smiled, turned and walked away unsure of what else to say. She didn't recognize him and thought perhaps he was a new student. Male students had seldom been so kind to her. That is, unless he was looking for something more than a friendly chat.
She might be poor, but Janet wasn't without beauty. The reality seemed to be men thought that poverty made her willing to do things other girls wouldn't consider without a robust relationship. Or that she was willing to accept money, or some other consideration for her charms. In their view it seemed she possessed lower moral standards because she was poor.
She reached the bus stop and waited as the bus pulled to the curb. She stepped in, placed her money into the fare box, and sat down. The woman driver smiled at her, turned her attention to the mirrors, and pulled away from the curb. Twenty minutes later Janet stepped off the bus, and walked past houses in need of repair and a coat of paint.
It had occurred to her more than once that her own home needed as much as the others. Why didn't her father, a handyman with tools and experience, not tend to his own home? He could have offered assistance to his neighbors. She had never come up with a logical reason. Perhaps it was the oppressive despair that seemed to sap ambition and pride in oneself that did it. All she knew was when she reached home, her life would change as soon as she entered the front door.
Her mother was almost always slumped back in a chair with cigarette smoke swirling around her head. If Janet was lucky her mother would be peeling potatoes or apples for the meal she was to prepare. Today she was not to be that lucky as her mother sat looking at the small television. Paying scant attention to her except to say she hadn't had time to peel the potatoes. The open beer bottle on the table next to her suggested her other priorities.
Janet took her laptop, binder, and books into her bedroom and set them on the small table next to her bed. She went back to the kitchen, gathered the potatoes she needed, washed, and peeled them in the sink. She made haste to get them on the stove to cook, then started to prepare a meat dish of chicken with garden vegetables she'd picked before leaving for classes.
Janet wanted everything to be ready for her father when he walked in the door. That way, if dinner were ready she wouldn't be reminded yet again that doing the chores around the house was to pay for her room and board. There was no free ride because she worked almost a full-time job, and went to school.
Her parents had made it perfectly clear before she graduated high school she should find a man, marry, and set about raising a family. A man with a full-time job was all she really needed. Going to school was a waste of time and her parents offered no financial support.
Janet knew that in her parents' mind their contribution to her education was that she had a roof over her head she could afford. Janet was sure they would want money if they thought she could afford to pay. Her brother lived at home, paying a mere pittance for his room and board without lifting a hand to clean or do minor repairs. He expected his clothes to be washed, dried, and folded by his younger sister because she did everyone else's laundry. Never once had he given her as much as a thank you for her efforts.
Janet most often sat in silence as her parents ate. They spoke sparingly between themselves and seldom spoke to her unless they needed something. Once in a great while her father would inquire about her job and express his opinion she should find one that paid better. This despite the fact it paid better than most and she had been rewarded with several raises over the past two years.
She could have done better if she could have taken a job as a waitress, or hostess. But that required better clothes than she owned. All of the money she earned went to paying for classes and into her secret savings account. Working in the kitchen helping to prepare food was what was left to her and she had made the best of it.
The owner was kind, though she had to endure an occasional 'accidental' brush of her breasts, or behind by his son as she worked. This insult to her dignity she bore in tortured silence. She knew getting a college education would change everything. At the end of this semester she would leave for a four-year college. A college where the reputation of her family would be unknown; where she'd be judged completely on her own merit.
Several of her high school teachers had supported and encouraged her to attend college starting her freshman year. With their interest and moral support she had studied hard, graduating third in her class. Her grades were good enough to get a small scholarship for her first year of college. It wasn't much, but it was enough to let her save more of the money she earned.
The prospect of a better life and her love of knowledge drove her to endure things most students never imagined. It was the only life she knew, a life she chose to leave behind as soon as she could.
She would leave home after finding a part-time job near the college she chose to attend. Then she would take as many classes as she could afford each semester. Early indications were she might receive additional financial aid after her first semester ended. There wasn't a doubt she would have a choice of where to attend as she carried a strong 3.8 grade point.
