I AM A PENCIL

I AM A PENCIL

… or at least this week, I am …

** // **

At the insistence and encouragement of my mother and grandmother, as soon as I could print, I’d be writing down little sentences. They often said I had a vivid imagination and shouldn’t let it go to waste. Unfortunately, through the years and several relocations, those little pieces of paper were lost. After all, I was only a kid. Back then, no one ever thought to keep anything like that. We lived in a small apartment and didn’t have room for much else but the family.

Once I started the second grade, once again, my mother and grandmother would urge me to write more than just one sentence. “Try writing a little story,” they would say. Mom would even prompt me to, “Write about our puppy on the floor. What do you think she’s dreaming about?”

Of course, the only thing my little brain could think of to write down was, “Molly is dreaming about chasing cats.” But it was enough. Mom was thrilled. Her daughter wrote a story.

My grandmother would sit with me each afternoon telling me tales of her life in England and the many adventures she and her siblings had.

What I didn’t know at the time was that while my grandmother was born in England, she only had one sister and they rarely went on any adventures. My grandmother was born in 1890 and learned that only boys and young men were properly allowed to be adventurous. Girl and young women were taught to be ladies and home makers.

Hey, I was a kid. What did I know? It was in my pre-teen years that I realized my grandmother’s imagination was even bigger than mine. Maybe that’s why she encouraged me so earnestly.

It was during that time of my life that my grandmother’s influence took on another aspect of my creativity. “Write a poem!” she insisted. “A what?” I replied.

Together, we penned a poem. Actually, she wrote it, I just sat there and listened. Not only did we write, but, as my grandmother always had a habit of doing, I memorized it.

“You may not think of me at first when there are others to attend.

Your every need, your hunger, thirst, the leisure hours you have to spend.

But even kaleidoscopes grow old and dim; carousels unwind and stop.

When one has climbed the pinnacle, there’s nothing, nothing at the top.

Then you might think of me and find my name a natural one to cry.

I haven’t quite made up my mind, whether or not I shall reply.”

I was eleven when this poem came to her mind. It’s a sad, yet defiant poem and I loved it. Still do.

My grandmother was awed when I entered high school and discovered that my English teacher, in addition to teaching sentence structure, diction, and comprehension, taught poetry. Sister Thadeus wasn’t a fan of prose poetry; however, her love was rhyme and rhythm. She often said if it didn’t rhyme and had no rhythm, it wasn’t poetry; it was prose. She was tough and opinionated, but she was a great teacher.

She gave us one week to get to know our classmates. While she observed our interactions with each other, she formed her opinions of us. Most often, her images of her students could not be disputed. Using that insight, she formed her lessons, knowing which students could encourage and help others.

One day, she walked into the classroom and gently closed the door. That was our cue that class was about to begin.

She picked up her piece of chalk, turned to the blackboard and wrote, “I Am a Pencil.”

We all turned our head, looked at each other as if we were asking, “What the heck?”

Laying her white compressed powder stick on the holder, she turned, looked at us and said, “This is your homework. We’ll discuss this before today’s class ends.”

We had no idea where she was going with this thought. Sister Thadeus was nowhere near pencil thin – and so we wondered. For the next thirty minutes, she concentrated our lessons on sentence structure and diction. She was always reminding us that a well-spoken, well-written person leaves a positive mark on those she meets. “One day, when you approach the world of business to find employment, the last thing you want to do is give off a negative vibe. If you go out of your way to look your best, why would you want to ruin that effect as soon as you open your mouth and display a lack of education?”

Okay, I know that’s old fashioned, but so was Sister Thadeus; yet, in our hearts we knew she was right. We listened; we learned.

Then the end of class was drawing near. She turned towards the blackboard, picked up her chalk, and underlined the word “pencil.”

Now, ladies, let’s invigorate your minds. As I have not yet assigned homework, I’ll make this your assignment. This is Friday, so you will clearly have the entire weekend to complete it. Each Friday, you will see a different topic written on this board. You are to draft a poem, using rhyme and meter. The title of your poem for this weekend is, ‘I Am a Pencil.’ Not only will this help improve the lessons you learned today but it will also help with your imagination. Pretend you are a pencil and write about that thought. Ladies, you have about three minutes remaining to this class, and yet,” she held up her arms, smile, and almost shouted, ‘CLASS DISMISSED!’”

To my best recollection, this is what I wrote:’’

I AM A PENCIL

I am a pencil,

So thin and yellow,

I can write witty,

Or I can write mellow.

I’ll write on paper,

But never in sand.

I’ll write what you want,

By using your hand.

**

Yes, I know. It’s a weird, lame poem but hey! I was only thirteen.

Oh, and my grade? Top of the class!