The 'Copycat'

I don't remember which grade, or standard as we say in India, I was in. Perhaps the fifth or sixth. 

Anyway every year the school magazine invited entries from students for essays, poems, stories etc. I was in the fourth standard when my essay on 'My Best Friend' had been published and since then I sent in some material every year just for the thrill of seeing my name there in black and white. 

One of these entries was a story in verse. My first ever. I had read the story of ‘The Town Mouse and The Country Mouse’ somewhere and thought it might be fun to retell it as a poem. It took me a while to perfect it by my pre-teen standards, but it was finally done. My parents of course thought it was brilliant and I had sent it across happily, careful enough to keep a copy for myself because I had never really worked so hard at writing anything before. 

The poem was submitted and I waited anxiously for the magazine to appear on the teacher's table. I wasn't aware then of the meticulous process that goes into selecting the pieces to be published. There was, like there is everywhere, an editorial team. And one of the members was an English teacher who taught the higher classes. I never liked her voice. It was too manly for a woman and hence a little unnerving. 

Anyway, when I got called in to meet her from among everyone else in the class, despite feeling important, I remember feeling distinctly nervous. She sat there in her class full of ninth graders with my poem in her hand. I walked in and she asked me in her hoarse voice, "Did you write this?"

"Yes Miss."

"Tell me the truth. Did you write this or did you copy this from somewhere?"

Okay, what exactly did that mean?

"No Miss. I wrote this myself. God promise. I swear!" 

"Don't you swear and say God promise in front of me," she hissed, "I know you copied this from somewhere."

Okay so this was bizarre. A class full of seniors sat there staring at me, probably marking me as the girl who copies, a teacher sat there questioning my hard work and well, now I couldn't even swear in the name of God. 

I remember tearing up but crying in front of people has never been my thing. 

"I didn't copy it Miss. I wrote it."

"Fine, I'll find out myself. You can go." I think she did reprimand me a little more than that, convinced as she was that I was passing off someone else’s work as my own. My memory isn’t very sharp about this. All I do remember is that stinging sense of insult.

I left. I didn't care anymore if my poem was published. My integrity was questioned by a teacher. And that would stay for life. 

A few weeks later, we got our magazines. I flipped through the pages and yes, the poem was there after all. Only, it had an entire verse missing (which killed the plot if you ask me) and if I remember correctly (since the magazine is back at my parents' house now) the byline had another name. 

I don't exactly remember how I felt at that time, except a looming sense of dejection and betrayal. I remember taking a pencil and making the corrections in my copy. And I remember harboring deep disrespect for the teacher. Thankfully, God had heard me after all and she was never assigned to our class in the years to come. I like to think it was because I swore by Him afterall.

 I think it almost put me off the whole idea of getting published and frankly, I have never bothered to work as hard at any other piece ever. But that is my doing and I can't blame her for it. 

It's been more than twenty years since the incident. But today when I look back, I understand what a huge compliment her opinion of me really was. Several harsh rejections, criticisms and self-realizations later, I’ve finally come to accept that despite what anyone might have to think or say about my work, I-am a writer and nothing’s ever going to knock that tag off.

To this teacher and to the many who’ve always told me very plainly that I can’t write- 

 

 I’m a writer and can rat-a-tat away at my computer all day long all for myself.  Without insecurity, greed, fear of criticism or the burning need to impress.

The current project I am working on has rekindled many such memories from childhood. Memories I'd forgotten existed. But they did, somewhere in some corner. And today I'm grateful for each one of them. I'm grateful for not just my family who've always had my back and my friends, who have always been excited for me but also for every one of  my teachers, who I realize have taught me more by their conduct than their lectures. Teachers will never fail you. Sooner or later, you always come back having learnt from them.

Anyway, thanks to this thought, I’ve found my way back to the blog. So that’s probably another reason to remember this lady with a little more respect. And I hope to have more to blabber about in the days to come. Cheers and have a great day!