Rants About English Class

Every day, I go to school. I have done this for twelve years -- up early, woken by alarm, fumbling to dress in the half-dark of the early morning. Every day, I step into a classroom labelled by my flimsy paper schedule as “ENGLISH.” And sigh.

See, at the beginning of each year I have palpable excitement regarding school -- specifically, my English class. Who will my teacher be? What will we learn? What forays will we make into creative writing and literature? I lie in my bed the night of August 22nd, tense and excited, running through the possibilities in my head of actually writing.

Then I go into school on the first day and my teacher tells us that our first unit will be over basic grammar. 

I think I’ve got the grammar down.

Noun: A girl. No wait, that’s not specific enough.

Proper noun: Sara Balabanlilar. That’s me.

Verb: to be. Only conjugated. So, is.

Adverb: Severely.

Adjective: Disappointed.

Let’s move on, shall we?

As the year goes on, I find myself growing more and more bothered. Where are the discussions? Where are the heated debates about the psychological death of the main character in 1984? And the greatest question of all -- when will we venture into the massive, intriguing, and as of yet uncharted world of INTERNATIONAL LITERATURE?

What are you saying? More... More antiquated American literature? And English? Droning lectures summarizing what I can read by myself?

Alright.

But see, it’s the disparity that hurts. Between what I see in the lit journals and what I see in my English class.

It hurts.

Sara