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Shaun Wrinn
The Weezys and Wonders of Writing
I am going to be a teacher. An English teacher. In a high school. Eek.Whenever someone asks me what I’m doing in school, I tell them that I’mgoing to be a high school English teacher. I get one of two reactions: “Wow, you’regoing to be a good teacher!” or “Why in the name of all that is good would you do that?”A few years ago, the thought of my becoming a teacher was not
completely
farfetched. Itwas sitting in the back of my mind as a sort of backup plan. I always told people that Iwould become a teacher after I made my millions and could afford to put a fountain sodamachine in my house (one of my completely random pipe dreams). At one pointhowever, I realized that the millions I wanted weren’t worth wasting years of my life as… well whatever it is you do to make millions of dollars. I have some innate desire tohelp people, some mad hope that I can
actually
make a difference in the world. My blindoptimism and oftentimes fantastical hopes lend themselves not to the rigors and standardsof math or science but to the wondrous events of literature.1
 
I was born a reader. Whenever I wasn’t playing baseball, I had a book in myhand. This was in part thanks to the fact that while I was in first grade, my mother  became a fifth grade teacher in the same school. After school I would wait for my momto finish her work and I would do my homework or read. My mom’s school library became my personal library. I would pick and choose books at random or byrecommendation and have them finished within the week. This became the routine untilsixth or seventh grade when the actual academics of school became secondary for me. Iwas too busy hanging out with friends or playing sports to really bother with theformalities of school. I was still a good student but the time and effort was simply notworth it to me.I graduated from middle school and decided to attend Notre Dame CatholicSchool in Fairfield, CT. ND was about a fifteen minute drive from my home and hadstudents from all over the state. Upon entering I was placed in the High Honors classes, aset of classes that included Latin, Spanish, and (eventually) physics and calculus. Thiswas the first time in my life I was truly challenged in school. I had what we high honorskids called the triumvirate—a group of three teachers we would have for two years. Thetriumvirate were widely known as the most difficult teachers in the school. The first twoyears of high school were some of the most stressful times I have had in my educationalcareer but also some of the most enlightening.The hardest of the triumvirate was undoubtedly Mr. Reidy. Doubling as theDean of Discipline, Mr. Reidy was the embodiment of Theodore Roosevelt’s decree of “speak softly and carry a big stick.” An extremely soft-spoken, grandfatherly man, Mr.Reidy would assign papers on the same day as tests, followed by a memorized speech, all2
 
with a gentle smile on his face. The thing that I did like about Mr. Reidy and hiscurriculum however were his rhetoric papers. We were assigned papers based on ideas— spatial arrangements, comparisons, etc. The topic was left completely up to the students but we had to follow the assigned rubric. This is the first time I actually enjoyed writing.It was not a question of 
needing 
to write this paper but rather 
wanting 
to write this paper.I wrote liberally about music and sports, two of my greatest passions, and was given oneof the highest compliments when Mr. Reidy remarked on two of my papers to the entireclass. At the time of course, I shrugged off the compliment to ensure my cool factor wasstill intact, but inside I was soaring. I had enjoyed writing those papers and was actually being rewarded for doing it.Despite the onerous amount of work, I really enjoyed high school. ND had become not only a school for me but more like a second home. I played soccer andlacrosse, had friends from all over the state, and grew to have a great relationship withmany of my teachers. One of those teachers (and member of the triumvirate) was Mrs.Chilet. A raucous laughter seemed to follow her wherever she went. Whether it was her resounding laughter or that of the student she had deemed her guinea pig for the day didnot matter—it was contagious. Mrs. Chilet quickly became my favorite teacher, the irony being that she was my Spanish teacher. I was well known for my complete aversion andseeming inability to learn the language. Despite this odd coupling, I grew to love goingto Spanish class (for the first and only time in my life) because there were many times Iwas left in tears from laughing so hard. I took to going to Mrs. Chilet’s room whilewaiting for soccer or lacrosse practice to begin. I wasn’t going for extra help or to score brownie points but because I actually enjoyed spending time with her. During these3
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