Just try to find a thesis statement. I dare you.

Until my sophomore year of high school, I always thought that I was a decent writer. I'd been told in elementary school and junior high, by various teachers and relatives, that it was something that I was good at. But then AP Lit came along, and Mr. Pitkin blew my whole "good writer" theory right out of the water. I remember being ridiculously excited about taking this class (I actually enjoyed completing the summer homework assignments), but once it started I quickly realized that in Mr. Pitkin's eyes, I was not the stellar writer that I had always assumed myself to be. Mr. Pitkin taught me that analytical writing must have five paragraphs: an introduction with a thesis statement, three paragraphs following with three separate points backing up said thesis, and a conclusion which summarizes the paper and then restates the thesis statement. I had never been taught writing in such a systematic way, and unfortunately my brain didn't respond well to the concept of formula writing. But I've never been one to break rules or (God forbid) deviate from what a teacher says is the correct way to do something. So I spewed out cookie cutter paper after cookie cutter paper, receiving mostly B's and the occasional A-, for an entire, heartbreaking year. And after every writing conference with Mr. Pitkin I would leave feeling more and more concerned about my ability as a writer.

But thank God for college. I took what seemed like every literature and writing course available over a four year period, and I was blessed to be taught by professors like Michael Harris, who praised nearly everything I turned in to be graded. Or Kimberly Koza, who encouraged me to submit one of my personal essays to a contest (I received second place, a cash prize, and the honor of being published in the campus literary magazine). Or Walter Cannon, who quite possibly hated me for some unknown reason, but there was a level of mutual respect, and he awarded me with A's for the Shakespeare papers that I slaved many a sleep-deprived night over. Not one of my college papers followed Mr. Pitkin's five paragraph, thesis statement, always-make-an-outline-first rule.

At best, I'm above average writer. My writing abilities lie somewhere between the praise of my mother (who, like every parent, thinks her child is the best at everything) and the critique of Mr. Pitkin. And in the same respect, Mr. Pitkin wasn't a horrible teacher. He had his redeeming and endearing qualities, and I have some good memories from AP Lit. Like the time Mr. Pitkin tripped on the overhead cord while dancing along to Monday, Monday by the Mama's and the Papa's. Or the day that Courtney McClimon and I found a stash of Kurt Vonnegut books in the metal cabinet in the back of the room, and thus began my love affair with Breakfast of Champions. Mr. Pitken wasn't a bad man, and it's not completely fair to blame him for my character flaw of critique-induced low self confidence. But I do have to admit that I take great satisfaction in knowing that he would absolutely cringe to read a piece (of three-paragraph) writing that ends like this.