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Kara Gardner

Professor Snell

English 1101

8 September 2021

A Pancake Predicament

Our burly seventh-grade English teacher flung pancakes toward his class full of eager 12-

year olds, the incentive for us to read our poems aloud. If your pancake chose to dodge its flimsy

paper plate rest stop, “just pick it up and eat it, they cleaned the floors last summer!” though it

was already April and there was no way they cleaned those floors last summer anyways.

Mr. Boyd was the proud owner of a booming baritone voice and a beard so long it had its

own hair routine. His “Reading is Fun!” poster full of cartoon frogs hung right over the

classroom clock so as to make it invisible. Even so, we never cared to know what time it was, as

the sixth-period dismissal bell was a dreaded sound to our ears that yearned to listen to his voice

for longer. To anyone who had never met him before, he appeared to be perhaps the most

intimidating person you could come across. But despite his reputation that sprouted from the lips

of gossip-filled pre-teens, he was conceivably one of the only teachers I have had who was truly

a joy to be around.

Nevertheless, with English class came essays, papers, and minuscule time to meet

deadlines, every slow writer’s worst nightmare. Regardless of the amount of pleasure I basked in

throughout the year while sitting in those ice blue chairs, marinating in the odor of Old Spice

deodorant and sweaty adolescents, there was one thing that provided hindrance to my optimistic
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mind; state testing. State testing, I have decided, is the reason school-aged kids have developed a

deep hatred for spring. I rested hope in the belief that Mr. Boyd would be different than every

other teacher who used state testing as an excuse to assign a multitude of busy work for

preparation, but to no avail.

Seventh-grade essay drafting consisted of petite ink-stained hands, smeared pencil marks

on paper, and that tingly feeling from your funny bone to your fingertips that occurs after writing

for too long. My handwriting is presumably the best aspect of my writing and I have never

shown someone my answers to a worksheet without being complimented on it. Despite my print

that looks like it could’ve been typed out by a MacBook Pro in Times New Roman font, my

hand moves across the page like a snail stuck in quicksand. That puke green sweater you saw at

Kohl’s last winter was selling out faster than I could jot down a sentence. Granted, I could’ve

written much quicker if I didn’t erase and rewrite every word at least 3 times, crumpling up

every angrily ripped sheet, but my perfectionist tendencies would not allow me to turn in

anything less than perfect. Routinely, I was able to work around this obstacle and ended up

completing loads of my classwork at home.

“The preparation of your essay is almost as important to your success as the words you

submit, so I expect all of you to utilize your test-provided scrap paper for drafting.” These

anxiety-inducing words hit me like granite pebbles launching off of Mr. Boyd’s lips. In protest, I

explained to him that there was no way I would be doing that, as it would take me the entire 90

minute test time just to write out my introduction. Mr. Boyd was seldom a man to change his

mind, and my situation proved to be no different. He responded to my objection by announcing

to the class that it was required of us, and our drafts would be collected by him afterward and

submitted for a grade. More pebbles.

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The sudden realization that life wasn’t all candy corn and roses smacked me upside the

head. How would I make it in college when my professors flipped through slideshows faster than

a cheetah running a track meet? I carried this unsettledness with me for days, and when I finally

grasped that the situation would not change itself, I decided to take control. I spent hours each

week working to speed up my handwriting, solely to make sure I would not be left with a paper

full of words and a dusty Dell computer with an empty box staring back at me. I would later

come to thank my incredibly sore right hand and the droopy purple bags under my eyes. Test

time came and I drafted and submitted debatably the best essay a seventh-grader could about the

scam of expiration dates on groceries.

Looking back and knowing Mr. Boyd, the same guy who threw pancakes at us during our

poetry unit, I am certain that he was joking about making essay drafting mandatory, but I am still

grateful he did. Going into college, I owe much of my academic success to him as well as the

free-spirited little me who was afraid of failure. Mr. Boyd helped me understand that life is all

about failure, but learning to revise your thoughts and actions that lead you to that low point is

what turns mistakes into life lessons.