My identity in high school boiled down to one thing, baseball. I was pretty good at it and all I cared about. The only reason I got good grades in school was to stay academically eligible so I could play. Baseball is who I was and what I did, and I knew nothing else. Fortunately, that all changed for me through a petit English teacher named Roberta Young.
I took a Creative Writing class my senior year to get my English credits. I was not a writer, I had terrible penmanship and no interest in learning to write. I could not type, even to this day I hunt and peck on the computer.
She had a quick wit and a loving heart, and a soft spot for the dumb jock type. She did not tolerate nonsense in class and was very precise. Ms. Young believed in what she was teaching and inspired my mind like no other teacher ever has, or I even thought was possible.
To think that I could actually express myself through writing, or even develop a talent that did not include a baseball was incredible to me. I loved going to her class and penciling down stupid poems and stories. Her class became a “get away” for me. A chance to express myself without trying to act cool.
Discovering a gift within yourself that you did not know existed can be life alerting.
After taking her class, I forever felt I had something special to offer, and it was up to me to develop it.
I have moved all over the country, changed jobs numerous times, unpacked and packed hundreds of boxes, cleaned out garages and storage sheds, raised three boys, about eight dogs, and I still have my 2-pocket blue Mead folder from Roberta Young’s Creative Writing class from the fall of 1981.
As I flip through the pages of that folder, it is a bit embarrassing to read some of the things I wrote, but at the time it meant something to me. But what is so rewarding is to see the handwritten notes Ms. Young scribbled on my papers.
Sometimes she would be very direct.
“Lacks organization, what’s the point? Good memories, but this is more like a rough draft than a final. Do it again!”
“Todd, would you be willing to read this in class? I wouldn’t think so!”
Other times she was a bit more encouraging.
“Your paper sounds very real and natural, as though you love this place very much. I think the blend of past and present is great! What’s more important Todd, I think you like your paper!”
“Your children’s story is great, but we can’t pollute children’s minds with incorrect grammar. But it is a genuinely nice story, well done Todd.”
I still remember seeing my final grade on my semester project like it was yesterday. It jumped off the page at me like a gift from God.
Written in bright red ink she wrote, “96/A – your writing has come a long way in one short semester, hasn’t it.”
Along with my friend Scotty, we wrote a silly play that she entered, unknowingly to us both, into the University of Houston High School Playwright Contest.
I will never forget seeing Ms. Young standing at the end of our dugout at a baseball game one night talking to my coach. I thought I was in trouble because I could tell they were talking about me. Plus, to be bothering my high school coach during a baseball game was unimaginable.
My coach walked over to me and said, “Ms. Young needs to speak to you.”
I was frozen in fear, to think that my baseball coach was going to let me take my focus off a game for even 30 seconds made my head spin.
As I walked toward Ms. Young, I could tell she was extremely excited. She stretched out her arms over the fence, and with a big smile on her face, and a few tears in her eyes, put her hands on my cheeks and said, “You won!” Of course, I replied, “Won what?”
She laughed and said, “The playwright contest, silly! The play that you and Scotty wrote won first place! And what is even better, they are going to perform it on stage. You’re a playwright! Way to go Todd, I am so proud of you.”
You tell me where I would have ended up my Senior year without my high school English teacher? I am certain I would not be hunting and pecking on this computer today.
She believed in me, plain and simple, and it had nothing to do with sports. Without her believing in me, I would be living my life with much less. Never learning there was more to me than baseball.
Writing for me is a love and a lifelong pursuit, a gift that keeps giving, mostly to myself, and that is fine with me. I do wish to improve at it though, because even today I want to make Roberta Young proud.
***
Todd Howey is a columnist for BrownwoodNews.com whose articles will appear on Fridays.
