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The Teacher of Room 207
“It just so happens that I have extra copies of Teen Ink. Who would like one?”
I raised my hand, and she handed me my first Teen Ink magazine.
“Maybe eventually you could submit a piece of writing to it.”
A year later, just this past January, one of my writings was printed in the Teen Ink magazine.
For the two years that I have known her, Ms. Cary has always remained the English teacher of Room 207. Her classroom was small, with thirty desks in total and a television set hovering near her standard-size brown desk. Windows overlooked the baseball field, which, during certain seasons, hosted a large flock of Canadian geese.
My first impression of the teacher was that she was a mean woman. I had thought that she would hand out detentions to anyone who dared to speak out of turn. However, that was at the start of my junior year. Now that I am nearing the end of my senior year, my impression of Ms. Cary has entirely changed.
Concerning academics, Ms. Cary is an excellent teacher. In almost every class, we would open our textbooks, take notes of a selected author –Robert Browning, for example- and read his poetry. However, our English class is not strictly limited to reading about authors and their writings. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, Ms. Carey would present a challenge to us. Write a piece of poetry modeled after Keats’ “When I Have Fears,” for example, or write a poem modeled after Wordsworth’s Lucy poems.
As a true English teacher, Ms. Cary not only exposes us to writings from American literature and British literature, but she also encourages us to write and polish our storytelling and essays. Even outside the classroom, she has always encouraged me to write. I remember one specific incident:
She was waiting outside her classroom, just like she always did whenever she had a class. My friend, Miranda, and I were heading towards our religion class in Room 215. We paused for a moment to say hi to Ms. Cary.
Usually, Ms. Cary would acknowledge us with a “Hello.” However, instead of that usual one-phrase welcome, she walked into her room, beckoning me to follow her.
Miranda and I entered the room.
“I have something for you,” she said.
It was a contest. Specifically, it was a poetry contest, in which one submitted a piece of writing in order to obtain a tour of the Bay Area’s estuaries. The deadline, however, was only a few days away.
“I’m sure you can whip up something,” she said before she escorted us out of the classroom and back on our way to the religion classroom.
In addition, my senior class had just gone on a retreat. As I later discovered, Ms. Cary had written me a letter, telling me to keep on writing.
And so, I will. It’s all thanks to her that my love for writing has fully developed.