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Jan. 31st, 2010 01:04 pmStorage, banzai!
I went out to my storage space today and cleared out another half-bag of trash, two boxes of donation stuff, and box full of recycling. I spent most of the time going through papers, because most of the boxes are paper; I have one whole box of photo albums which, after I cull them, will be scanned in and stashed on my hard drive. For the win!
I also found a binder of stuff my mum has been saving for over twenty years: old schoolwork from when I was a truly wee kid. Most of it went to recycling, but I kept some of the writing and one or two drawings, and some of the report cards. I'd like to share with you a teacher's letter from when I was eight years old:
Sam is maturing beautifully. He has accepted a leader role in the classrom and handles it with sensitivity and pride. I am pleased with continued academic growth. His resistance to writing and art is fading, and he seems to problem-solve more effectively than at the start of the term. He is positive, friendly, and dynamic. As he gets older, we need to nurture his sensitivity to his classmates and make sure his anger and impatience are handled constructively.
Ahahahaha. Good luck with my inability to tolerate stupidity, Mr. Ellinton.
I had Mr. Ellinton for two years and he was actually my absolute favourite teacher as a kid. I adored him, but we butted heads over that "resistance to writing and art" thing. I wasn't fully able to vocalise, being EIGHT, that I had no problem being creative or enjoying my creativity. I just thought it was stupid to set aside one hour a day, the same hour every day, and tell me to be creative for that one precise hour.
Mr. Ellinton must have had the patience of a saint. Near to this letter in the binder I found the following "short story" I wrote during "creative writing hour":
Writing
He tapped his toes. He twiddled his thumbs. He sharpened his pencil. Pencil sharpening is fun. He counted how many kids were wearing green. He was bored.
Finally, class was over!
What a little shithead I was. I'm me and I want to strangle my eight-year-old self. Points for sarcasm, though.
I also found a similar letter from the following year. I had a different teacher, whom I hated, and the stuff she said in that letter still makes me angry twenty years later. So I threw it out!
Because I am a grownup, and I get to decide what criticism I accept and what criticism I deny as "You have issues and I'm not stupid."
That was very liberating.
I went out to my storage space today and cleared out another half-bag of trash, two boxes of donation stuff, and box full of recycling. I spent most of the time going through papers, because most of the boxes are paper; I have one whole box of photo albums which, after I cull them, will be scanned in and stashed on my hard drive. For the win!
I also found a binder of stuff my mum has been saving for over twenty years: old schoolwork from when I was a truly wee kid. Most of it went to recycling, but I kept some of the writing and one or two drawings, and some of the report cards. I'd like to share with you a teacher's letter from when I was eight years old:
Sam is maturing beautifully. He has accepted a leader role in the classrom and handles it with sensitivity and pride. I am pleased with continued academic growth. His resistance to writing and art is fading, and he seems to problem-solve more effectively than at the start of the term. He is positive, friendly, and dynamic. As he gets older, we need to nurture his sensitivity to his classmates and make sure his anger and impatience are handled constructively.
Ahahahaha. Good luck with my inability to tolerate stupidity, Mr. Ellinton.
I had Mr. Ellinton for two years and he was actually my absolute favourite teacher as a kid. I adored him, but we butted heads over that "resistance to writing and art" thing. I wasn't fully able to vocalise, being EIGHT, that I had no problem being creative or enjoying my creativity. I just thought it was stupid to set aside one hour a day, the same hour every day, and tell me to be creative for that one precise hour.
Mr. Ellinton must have had the patience of a saint. Near to this letter in the binder I found the following "short story" I wrote during "creative writing hour":
Writing
He tapped his toes. He twiddled his thumbs. He sharpened his pencil. Pencil sharpening is fun. He counted how many kids were wearing green. He was bored.
Finally, class was over!
What a little shithead I was. I'm me and I want to strangle my eight-year-old self. Points for sarcasm, though.
I also found a similar letter from the following year. I had a different teacher, whom I hated, and the stuff she said in that letter still makes me angry twenty years later. So I threw it out!
Because I am a grownup, and I get to decide what criticism I accept and what criticism I deny as "You have issues and I'm not stupid."
That was very liberating.
