Life’s tough when you’re a lethargic, self-loathing nincompoop. I was your classic case of a kid with wasted potential. I dragged through my high school days, thinking I was the main character in an indie coming-of-age movie, determined to spend my time listening to punk rock and enjoying the fleetingness of life. I had concluded that permanence was a facade and thus, I was going to dabble in and out of everything that threatened to make me care and never commit to anything. Friendships, obligations, school – everything. I was past caring and stuck in a mild case of inertia at the age of 16.

I did care about my grades, but unlike most of my peers, I did not equate them with my worth. However, I noticed that they made my parents happy, so I tried to get A’s.

Then I joined the bandwagon of procrastination. I held nicknames like “cram queen” and was known as the girl who’d be up tweeting at 4 a.m. about her history notes. Somehow I maintained an honor roll average, and this reinforced my belief that my chaotic all-nighters and lack of consistent effort would do me no harm. This rebellious punker thought she was beating the system. I was a sardonic utter imbecile.

Then last year, I lugged my feet into his English class, took a seat in the back corner and immediately started shuffling through songs on my iPod. My peers had told me to be scared of Sebastian Cimetta. They had told me he was a vulture, always ready to swoop down on those not paying attention. You couldn’t afford not to be alert in his English class. He wouldn’t let you get away with it.

But of course, I didn’t care. I mean, why would I? I just had to study the book the night before the exam, and I’d get a flat 80 and could go home and watch reruns of “How I Met Your Mother.” If he asked me why I didn’t do the homework I’d reply, “I didn’t have time.” If he asked me if I read the book I’d say, “I’ll do it tomorrow.” If he told me not to sleep in class I’d mumble, “Sorry,” and keep my head up. I was going to be the predictable, boringly average student putting in tiny specks of effort so he’d leave me alone.

But it didn’t go as planned. Mr. Cimetta gave me a quizzical look whenever I would dish him one of my excuses, and he eventually let me know that they weren’t acceptable. Fearing that he would call my parents, I began actually doing my homework. He’d talk to me after class, telling me what he expected and how I needed to pick up my slack and get things done on time. What a pain, I’d think. He was demanding, and it looked like I couldn’t slide out of this one easily.

Suddenly, I was actually listening in class. I noticed how passionate he was when teaching photography and slam poetry, things I enjoyed. I was intrigued and felt sorry when he’d ask the class a question and only receive yawns in response. Before I knew it, I was raising my hand. For three years in high school my report cards had always said “would benefit from active participation.” That line had never motivated me, but something about the way he taught, the way he connected with students made me want to soak up all the knowledge he was offering. Then, he was no longer calling on me when I was half asleep because I was wide awake.

Mr. Cimetta doesn’t see his students as a mass he has to educate, but rather views us as unique individuals; he really goes that extra mile to connect with us. He spoke to me of poetry and themes of rebellion and fighting the system – things that he knew I’d be interested in. Best of all, he continuously presents his classes with extracurricular opportunities such as writing competitions and slam poetry contests to help us cultivate our talents. Even after his class ended, he would email me opportunities, many of which I have become involved in.

I’m still that kid who tries to get by with the help of a cheeky smile and shifty feet, but I’ve become familiar with responsibility and have been trying to build it into my character. Mr. Cimetta always asks me how my artistic endeavors are going, and I look forward to keeping him updated. I now leap at opportunities instead of sitting by the sidelines. He made me realize that acting like a frivolous, nonchalant teenager was a mask I used to hide my lingering doubts about my ability to become the person I want to be.

But here’s the thing; he believed in me even when I didn’t believe in myself. I didn’t care about living out my days only doing the minimal. But he did. He didn’t let me take the easy way out, and he was tough about it. He’d tell me when I did a good job but didn’t slack off on the criticism either. I have realized that I evolve most when there is someone around I want to make proud, like Mr. Cimetta.