Links
index
message
RSS
my writing since Aug. 2011
poems I like
more places to find me
credit


About
My name's Meghan, and I'm nineteen. I like feminism, Sofia Coppola, apples, and John Lennon's nose. When I grow up I want to be Winona Ryder and/or David Foster Wallace. I have a bad personality. I'm working on it?

17 June 2012
1:16 am
9,806 notes

My eleventh grade English teacher was a guy named Paul MacAdam. I got a D in the class, and I only got the D because I wrote a paper about Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye over the summer. I was a crap student: I didn’t read; I didn’t participate; I didn’t turn in papers, or when I did, it was embarrassingly obvious I hadn’t read the books. I also skipped class a lot. It was in the morning, and I didn’t think very highly of morning classes.

I actually said that to him once. He took me aside after the bell rang one day and said you’ve been missing a lot of class, and I was like, “Yeah, I don’t think too highly of morning classes.” I was a real peach.

But when I did go to class, I was usually the last person to file into the room. One thing I remember about that class: Mr. MacAdam always held the door open for us until the bell rang. We’d walk in, and he’d greet each of us. He always held the door open until the bell started ringing, and I’d come in last, three seconds before the bell rang, staring at my untied sneakers, stinking of cigarette smoke, and he’d say, “Mr. Green, always a pleasure,” and then he and the class would talk about the book. Say it was Slaughterhouse Five. I hadn’t read it, of course, but they would talk about it, and MacAdam would get to talking about war and the nonlinear nature of time and how Vonnegut had stripped down the language to tell the nakedest of truths.

But the discussion was always so interesting—these big, hot, fun ideas seemed to matter so much. So I read the books. I never read them when I was supposed to read them; I’d read them a week later, after I’d already gotten an F on my reaction paper. But I’d read them. In essence, I was reading great books for fun. MacAdam didn’t know it, of course. He probably still doesn’t know it. But it didn’t matter whether I was worthy of his faith; he kept it. He still held the door open every day for me. He still treated me like I was the smartest kid in the class, still took me seriously on those rare occasions when I’d raise my hand, still listened thoughtfully to me when I’d give him my reading of a passage I could comment upon only because he’d just read it out loud. He believed I was real, that I mattered. I wasn’t yet able to understand that he mattered, but he was okay with that. He just kept holding the door open for me.

— John Green, excerpt from his 2008 speech at the Alan Conference

Last Post      Next Post

  1. definitelynotangels reblogged this from twilightprincipessa
  2. luadecheshire reblogged this from delusionsofgrandr
  3. castillon02 reblogged this from effyeahnerdfighters
  4. psionotic reblogged this from lady-of-the-lost-and-found
  5. lady-of-the-lost-and-found reblogged this from authenticityisinvaluable
  6. paperlily7 reblogged this from imaginecomplexity
  7. asianitychic101 reblogged this from everythingsuckswhenyouare19
  8. doctordonna27 reblogged this from everythingsuckswhenyouare19
  9. everythingsuckswhenyouare19 reblogged this from autumnparis
  10. jonesiantojones reblogged this from happyhealthycitizen
  11. lilo799 reblogged this from shesatreblemaker
  12. shesatreblemaker reblogged this from thestoryteller23
  13. kitttytea reblogged this from isntitlovelydarling
  14. isntitlovelydarling reblogged this from ohminho
  15. ohminho reblogged this from thestoryteller23
  16. thestoryteller23 reblogged this from inverseofconverse
  17. she-never-had-a-chance reblogged this from vulneratus-non-victus
  18. vulneratus-non-victus reblogged this from inverseofconverse
  19. inverseofconverse reblogged this from piratezrock
  20. wandering-butnot-lost reblogged this from dawnslate
s.t.