Boring Girls(14)

Ms. Coates interjected. “Yes. Rachel, would you agree?”

“Yes,” I said, hoping I looked attentive and concerned.

“Please go on, Ms. Voree.”

My teacher cleared her throat. “In my comments on her work, I have suggested multiple times that she explore different themes and feelings in her writing. I’ve encouraged her to expand. I really believe she is the best writer in her class, but the drawback is always the imagery she chooses to write about.”

“Having read the poems, I can see that,” Ms. Coates agreed. “Please go on.”

“The problem right now is this most recent submission. It’s on the top of the pile,” Ms. Voree gestured at the poems. “I couldn’t help but feel that Rachel is now directing this violent focus onto me.”

Ms. Coates sighed and addressed me. “Rachel, having read this poem, I can see how Ms. Voree would take your wording very personally. And as you know, here at Glen Park Secondary, we don’t want anyone to feel their work environment is threatening or harassing in any way, be it teacher or student.”

“I understand that,” I said, nodding.

“Ms. Voree is concerned, after reading your poem. But she’s also stressed to me that you are a good student, a pleasant personality, so she is having a dilemma in reconciling your viewpoint in this particular poem to your personality as a student, as delinquent behaviour is not typical of you. I’ve certainly never had any run-ins with you, and I tend to be able to learn who the bad seeds are pretty early on in their scholastic careers here at Glen Park.” She chuckled. I chuckled too, and so did Ms. Voree. We all f*cking chuckled, even though it wasn’t funny.

“Ms. Coates, if I may take it from here,” my teacher said. “I’d like to express to you, Rachel, that I give you credit as a writer and I hope I am wrong in my reaction to this poem. I’d like to give you the opportunity to explain it to us, if perhaps we are misunderstanding your meaning.”

Both of them looked to me expectantly.

“Well, yes,” I said. “I think it’s a misunderstanding. I mean one of the things I’m learning about in English class is the use of metaphors. And so I’ve been trying to use metaphors in my poems. I mean, that first line, about the lady in the dress, that isn’t supposed to be Ms. Voree. It’s supposed to be, like, a metaphor for ‘education,’ you know?”

I cleared my throat and continued. “Like, the school system. I guess I had this idea about education, you know, maybe if it was corrupt. A corrupted school system teaching kids the wrong things.” They watched me, and I wiped my palms on my skirt. “Sort of wanting to rebel against the system or something. You know? Like the school system being a symbol of something evil. But it’s all metaphors. It wasn’t about Ms. Voree.”

They absorbed this, and Ms. Coates thoughtfully looked over the poem. “What about this part, about ‘snapping your spine’?”

“It isn’t literal. It’s just another way of saying, like, ‘stopping’ it. The whole thing is about being unfairly judged and turning the table on people judging you. ‘Grading’ means ‘judging.’ Just sort of fighting back against things that are unfair, and I used the whole school thing as a metaphor.”

Ms. Coates nodded and looked to Ms. Voree. She was also nodding.

“You’re very creative, Rachel,” Ms. Voree said, “and I appreciate that you employ these sorts of concepts in your work. Clearly, you are capable of some very interesting ideas. I can accept that explanation.”

Ms. Coates agreed. “I’m glad that this matter seems as though it can resolve itself. Both of us had hoped for just such a clear resolution from you. You’re a very bright girl. But please do try to take a lighter note in your work from now on, as Ms. Voree has suggested. These violent metaphors are present in most of your assignments here, and I agree it would be nice to see some other ideas from you.”

Everything was pleasantly wrapped up and I was able to leave, boiling with fury. I was relieved that I wasn’t in trouble, but I felt incredibly wronged and patronized. My teacher wanted me to write about things I didn’t believe in and didn’t feel. Shouldn’t a good teacher approve of, and encourage, strength and inspired emotion? It was a creative writing unit, not a let’s make the teacher think happy thoughts unit. Shouldn’t she want to bring out the best in me? Sure, the poem had been about her, but I wasn’t actually going to walk into the class and break her neck. How na?ve was she? She had been one of the teachers I actually kind of liked.