Monday, January 21, 2013

My Pride, My Joy (cont 3)

My rebellious spirit fizzled out. My pride sunk into a deep, deep hole. This was not the direction I'd been hoping for.

"No student at KSTS could have written anything like it," she repeated. "It was perfect. No mistakes. You are all lazy and need to get to work." She continued to compare my work to theirs, and I tuned her out.

If it was culturally acceptable, I would have burst into tears, but there is nothing Ghanaians hate more than crying. In a stupid display of pride, I had caused the teacher to bully my class for something they couldn't help.

All year, I've been realizing just how much of my intelligence I owe to the American education system. I'd always believed the writer was within me. But if I had grown up in Ghana, would anyone have taught me how use words? Would the ideas be burning without any channel?

The teacher's words didn't cause the angry sting of a false accusation. They gave me the deep pain of an unfortunate truth.

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