The Things They Said
In first grade,
Mrs. K tells me I’m an artist
and asks me to draw a picture for the cover of our class book,
“The ABC Book of Animals”.
I am so disappointed in myself
when I realize
I forgot to color the sky.
In second grade,
Mrs. T laughs as she hands back
my half-page story assignment
that turned in to a 26 page story
with pictures
and tells me that I’m a writer.
I never forget
when she tells me
I’m a writer.
I smile at the big A+ at the top of the front page,
but smile even bigger when she asks me to read it in front of the class.
I am absolutely blown away
when all of my classmates actually sit still
and listen
through all 26 pages about a talking cat.
In third grade
Mrs. L rolls her eyes
and tells me
that nobody likes a “Know It All”
and tells me to put my hand down.
But it’s not my fault
that I’m the only one who seems to know these answers.
I don’t raise my hand for the remainder of the year
and at conferences
she tells my mom
I don’t participate enough in class.
In fourth grade
I lose my name.
All of my classmates call me “Smart Girl”.
The art teacher hangs our paintings of flowers
in the hallway by the cafeteria.
The principal looks at mine and says
“I would hang this one up on my living room wall”.
In fifth grade
two of my friends and I
sneak in to the house of a boy
whose mom works on Sundays.
We all sit in the living room
and the other two girls start fighting
for his attention,
arguing over which one of them is most likely
to grow up to be famous.
One of them turns to him
and says,
“J.B. which one of us do you think will
grow up to be famous?
Me or her?”
J.B. looks right past both of them
at me
and says “Gina.”
In sixth grade,
my English teacher gives me my first detention
accusing me of plagiarizing a poem
that I had written.
“There is no way you wrote that.
This isn’t your work,”
she writes
at the top of the assignment.
I didn’t plagiarize a thing
and she has no proof that I did,
but I don’t know how to prove that I didn’t.
The “Nobody likes a Know-It-All” mentality
follows me all the way up to freshman year high school Biology.
I don’t raise my hand
but the teacher
always glances at me after every question
because he knows I know
that mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell,
and that human chromosomes come in 23 pairs,
and that I doodle double-helix structures all over my notebook.
He calls my name
and I give him his answers
and he thanks me for scaring away the crickets.
He pulls me aside
and tells me
I’m the smart kid in the room,
and shows me my grade.
At that moment
I am the only student with an A.
He gives me back
my voice that day.
The summer before tenth grade,
I sit at the park by my house
and Alex hangs upside down
from the monkey bars
for what feels like ten minutes straight.
I tell him
I wish I had that kind of strength in my legs.
He proceeds to fall on his head
and laugh
and tell me that
I’m the strongest person he knows.
Junior year
My English teacher asks me if it hurts
being so smart
in such a dumb ass world,
then asks to see me after class.
He ends up switching me in to his advanced course.
In my recommendation letter for college,
he says that some of my written pieces were
“worthy of being published.”
When I am 17
I run out of a room full of people
who are standing and clapping
as I am crying like an idiot
after giving a seven-minute speech
fighting for a man
who was better off
not staying.
Jessi hugs me
and tells me
nobody else could have made that kind of impact
on a room full of adults.
A writer for the Redford Observer
hands me a card with his number on it
and tells me I’m brave.
Senior year
a teacher pulls me aside
and tells me I am the best writer in
his creative writing class,
but that I currently have a D.
He tells me that D’s are for Dumb asses.
That same year,
my uncle tells me that my G.P.A. is shit,
and he hopes I’m prepared to go to a community college.
When I get my acceptance packet in the mail from Columbia,
he’s nowhere to be found.
A few weeks before high school graduation,
I’m in the projector room of the art room
having a mental breakdown.
As I throw a half-eaten PB&J at the wall,
Michael laughs and says
“You know,
I don’t believe in much,
but I believe in you.”
My first year of college,
I’m sitting on the couch
watching Roseanne
and crying
because I don’t understand why
this one man in particular
seems to be incapable of loving me back,
and Emily says,
“You are so pretty
and so fucking smart,
guys in your classes probably fall in love with you
multiple times a day
every time you raise your hand.
Fuck him.”
When I am 19
an MLive reporter
who watched Eminem’s childhood home burn
tells me I have a way with words.
When I am 20,
the son
of the man
who created The Heidelberg Project in Detroit
catches wind of my art
and asks me if I work out of a studio.
He laughs
when I tell him I buy my art supplies
at Wal-Mart.
When I am 21
I go through my giant pile of books
trying to find one worth reading.
I complain that I have yet to read the book
that will change the world.
My mom laughs
hands me a pen
and says
“That’s because you’re supposed to write it.
© Gina Clingan 2017
From my book, Redford, which can be purchased here
