Julie McCracken

ENG 313
Personal Narrative – Rough Draft
February 18th, 2009
Memories from a Different Point of View

This cold January morning, just like any other, Taylor Swift belted from my phone “I’m

not a princess, this ain’t a fairy tale”. It’s my friendly reminder that regardless of the ungodly

hour that she sings, I am, in fact, not a princess, there is no crown around my head or servants to

get me ready for my day. I swing myself out of my short, stunted bed, one that I have not slept

in for the last twelve years of my life. I retreat to the bathroom, where everything feels short and

uncanny. The only water that is turned on is hot, in hopes to wash and burn away all the

memories of this house, flooding my already packed mind. My nerves feel claustrophobic as

they have barely any room to move. The buzzing of the blow dryer and clamping of the hair

straightening device don’t seem to happen fast enough as the time continues to tick by. Button

the collared shirt bottom-to-top in order to ensure no button is skipped in lost thoughts, as the

bizarre morning is one that can be left unexplained to the world. Walking quickly in stilettos is

like running across a bed of needles, it’s slightly painful during the act but the quicker the

movement is over the better. I feel like the small white rocks in the driveway have never gotten

dirty, and I still stumble over them as I try and climb into my car and drive the block and a half

to the school.

Pulling into the parking lot, the steering wheel leads itself to the same row that it used to,

a mere three-and-a-half years ago. I gazed out across the yard towards the school, where it has

doubled in size with new renovations, the addition of windows and a new paint job can not

remove the feeling and memories that rest in peace inside. Upon entering the building there is a

bittersweet feeling when I’m recognized; being asked to sign in like a guest is almost a sign of

being completely removed from something that I sometimes wish I hadn’t experienced, yet

knowing all the while without the experience and the recognition, my character would be
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drastically different. I listen to the click-click beneath my feet and know that being a stranger

isn’t what distinguishes adult from child, teacher from student, alumna from current, but this

does. The loud noises of the hallway can’t drown out the feeling of adulthood; click-click-tap-

click-click and “Everyone say hello to Ms. McCracken. We are lucky enough to have her with us

today to observe and ask me some tough questions about how ya’ll get your grades.”

The sign above my designated seat says “Co-Captain” as it always does, and I begin to

write. Questions fly through my mind as I revamp what was slated to soar from between my

lips during my research interview. How do we grade objectively? Equal vs. Equitable?

Openness in grading? Advantages/disadvantages to rubrics? Do you use them? Grading across

different types of genres? Emphasis on grammar usage? Grading to different avenues of

writing expression? How does grading affect a student’s motivation for the next assignment?

Looking out at the students, who I remember being inches smaller and in middle school during

my senior year, my mind fills with memories of graded papers by the same teacher attempt. Yet

my brain is like a coin-sorter, doing its best to sift through the massive number of memories with

graded homework assignments, specifically papers, and what details of his grading made a

difference to me. As quickly as the coins fall through, my mind races back to thoughts of how I

hope to grade in such a way that they learn, grow, change, and continue to write. My confidence

begins to dwindle as the topic of grading has the ability to overcome any notion that I would be

that good.

After the students received their T4 writing assignment, which is scaffolding another step

in the ACT prep that Mr. Foster has set up, he sits down and lets out a sigh, and then leans

forward across the desk towards me with a grin from ear-to-ear. “So what do you need to know

about grading, little grasshopper?” Laughter erupts from both of our mouths and is quickly
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stunted by the fourteen reminders writing in the same room as us. I appreciate and admire the

reality of teaching that he lays before me; “there’s no such thing as subjective grading outside of

rubrics.” “Rubrics only really work for AP or ACT practice papers.” “Any other time a rubric is

used, it’s as if there are thirty-two different rubrics that match each student’s ability.” “Grading

is effective and relevant when it’s equitable, not equal.”

All of my questions were filled with excited answers and the conversation turns to the

stresses and joys of life in and out of the classroom. ‘The great grading debate’, as I’ve labeled

it, ended all the chatter and brought the curiosity to an all time high. Do you write in the margins

or in a paragraph at the end? Is it bad or wrong to have a student’s paper “bleed”? He jogs my

memory and questions what I remember. Without detailing him with the intricacies of my

morning, I forced an imaginary anxiety pill into my brain and push aside any excess memories

still lingering from the morning. I attempted to remember how he graded me. The feedback

existed imbedded in the margins, mistakes had a dark line beneath them, and the next day was a

guaranteed lesson covering common mistakes. A conversation where we never felt singled-out

since we all made the same type of mistakes. Statements like I always put both positive and

negative feedback equally throughout the paper and sometimes I have the students ‘see me’ just

so I can tell them how much their point/argument rocked, sent me into a dizzy frenzy of

flashbacks.

Sitting there, in my favorite blue jeans and my straight hair, I stared as Mr. Foster swung

the little blue chair to the front of the room and dropped a stack of papers down upon it, smack!

There was only one letter that ever made its way onto the top of my papers; “A”. Julie was my

name and grade chasing was my game. A concern regarding acquisition of a knowledge base

was irrelevant as long as the sacred letter sat at the top of my homework in all of its glory. I
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stretched my sore legs from my long run that morning and walked towards the small blue chair,

like the ones they put in elementary schools, a small reminder of how much we have all grown

since I fit into that chair. Now, my masterpieces were the same size as the chair, and I was big

enough to write them. He told to us all to grab our papers and then write in our journals. I

walked up with ease, never questioning what grade I would receive. I had never received

anything short of perfect, I thought, and yet my stomach churned the way it does when there is a

twinge of anxiety in my body, the same way my mother’s always does whenever I’m breaking a

curfew or trying to convince her that I am an angel. The paper almost jumped into my hands and

I floated back to my seat against the wall and leaned back to bask in the letter’s glory… ‘B’. It

felt as if my heart skipped a beat; send me a pace-maker now before I actually go into cardiac

arrest. I stormed up to Mr. Foster ready to question his audacity for writing such a tragedy and

tainting the top of my paper. Directions that were spat at me refused any discussion of the said

tainting until twenty-four torturous hours had passed.

My humbled legs felt wobbly, nervous, as they brought my feeble body to his desk the

next day, pleading for that precious “A” to resume its place at the top of my paper again. Yet, in

his own charismatic way, he denied me that right to continue my reign as a perfect writer. The

words explaining that my grade reflected my writing ability rang in my ear canal, yet never fully

reached my brain cells, and ultimately, my memory bank. Everyday, for weeks upon weeks, I

continued the same pleading ritual, until he asked me if I had learned anything and what could be

improved. From deep within me, the same place that the gut feeling stems from, came the

confidence to approach the ‘master grader’ and question the ‘see me’ that kept staring me dead

square in the face, and often reached out to slap me. Upon questioning Mr. Foster, that ever

familiar loud chuckle came out as he said, “I just wanted you to know that your argument rocked
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right there”, and continued to laugh. Eventually my own loud laugh erupted and that “B” was no

longer staring at me in a threatening way, but smiling and gleaming with an opportunity to

improve.

My scatter brain returned to reality where Foster was gleaming with excitement to share

grading papers with me, and test out my own skills. As my eyes moved from word to word and

line to line, I know that Mr. Foster’s were doing the same. My left hand held the blue pen,

resting on my thumb and controlled by my middle finger, and formed comments, both positive

and constructive, within the margins, showing places with room for improvement. My chest

filled with a feeling of pride as I peered over the desk next to me, observing Foster doing the

same, yet with his right hand. I felt a slight tightness in my stomach when he smiled at me and

asked, “Well, what did you give ‘em? How many outta 10?”. The tightness got tighter as I

feared disappointing my mentor teacher, yet, I remembered the email I received a few weeks

back, ‘You’re on the right track kiddo. You were made for this job’; so I took a deep breath and

let out a “6 out of 10”. The loud, and surprisingly comforting chuckle unleashed once again, and

the room full of eyes turned our way, and he told me to relax that I gave the exact same grade.

The exact same grade!, I thought, I really can be good enough. The feedback in the margins was

almost identical which caused my heart to fill with pride and confidence. I looked over and

could almost see my old crown that used to sparkle and glisten, and that blue chair that I no

longer fit into, vanish into the past, just like my old stubborn ‘grade chasing’ ways. Finally, the

claustrophobic nerves in my brain suddenly had space; all when the simple joys of grading eased

all clustered thoughts and laid them with my worries to rest.