The Good Girl: A Critical Examination of My Own Writing

“Your daughter is so well-behaved.” That’s what people tell my mom. Teachers, babysitters, friends, family members… everyone notices how good I am. I’ve always been the reliable kid; the one that does exactly what she is told to do. But the truth is that in my life, I’ve just always been too good.

Like last week, when I didn’t want to bother the teacher by tattling on Brian Hartley for pinching my arm at recess- even though it left a purple bruise. Or how I don’t want to hurt my grandpa’s feelings by complaining that he buys the wrong kind of peanut butter. My best friend, Becky, ALWAYS bosses me around, but I would never think to tell her off. I was even too good to cry when Mom said we had to give Woofer away, because, “This is now a single-parent household and there’s no time for a dog.” What people never tell you is that sometimes, being good is the pits.

So today, as I sat in the back of Mrs. Friedman’s class, it occurred to me that maybe it doesn’t always pay to be so good.
Gazing around the room, I rested my chin in my hand. I looked up towards the front row of desks, where the bad kids sit. James was twisting a paper clip into a tiny sculpture, hands hidden inside his enormous desk. Mrs. Friedman perched by the blackboard correcting homework: a great eagle guarding over her nest of second graders. I listened to the gentle click of the minute hand on our classroom clock, as dusty October sunlight streamed in through the windows. Becky sighed, to my left. School is boring.

Allison pretended to work on addition and subtraction word problems as she urgently whispered my name. “Abby! Hey, Abby! Look what I’ve got!” I looked towards my right. Dramatically opening her palm, she revealed what she clearly thought to be The World’s Greatest Treasure. “My mom got me this!” She stared down at a rectangular object, her eyelashes creating tiny shadows at the tops of her cheeks. Rooted to my seat, I inspected what seemed to be the largest crayon I had ever seen. It was a thick block of multi-colored wax: perfectly formed for an eight-year old’s fingers.

I imagined what it might be like to draw with it. Mom dropped me off at the YMCA daycare before school each morning, and usually, I was the first kid there. We’d wait outside in her blue Toyota for the building’s lights to come on while it was still dark, getting there early enough so that she could drive to the East Norwalk train station and catch the 7:07 train to Grand Central. What this meant for me, is that I’d be dumped off into a room that smelled of sour milk and graham crackers, with nothing to do but compose pictures and designs on my sketchpad.

I sucked in my breath and dreamed of using this crayon to create the most beautiful arcs and lines: red-orange-green-purple-blue, with one fell swoop. I imagined the pictures that I could send to Dad: rainbow houses, rainbow people, rainbow hearts. “Can I hold it?” Allison shook her head, smugly. No. Becky looked at me. “That’s selfish. You should share,” she quietly scolded. I nodded in agreement. Becky always knew the right thing to say. I watched as she settled back into her seat and crossed her ankles, in way that only she could pull off: showing both pity and disgust for all of us around her. “I said no!” Allison said, more loudly. I looked towards Mrs. Friedman. She sat in a shabby brown chair, red correcting pen in hand. “Allison! If you’re talking so much, you must be finished. Come up here and bring me the work that you’ve done.” Allison lovingly put the crayon away. I watched as she set it inside of her desk. It was on top of a blue spelling workbook, like an island of wax. She gave it one last glance and shuffled up to the teacher’s big metal desk. “No, no… weren’t you listening? When you subtract across zeroes… “

I tried to get back to my word problems.
Michael has 16 baseball cards. Ellen collected 8 baseball cards. How many cards to they have all together?
Visions of the crayon danced before my eyes. I imagined yards and yards of blank white paper. I saw our refrigerator at home, littered with the glorious artwork that could only be created with this one, perfect instrument. I crossed my arms and stared past my desk. Why should Allison be so lucky? What did she need it for? She doesn’t even draw that well. It isn’t fair.
I sighed, thinking about how after school, I’d have to sit in that smelly daycare room with nothing to do but draw. Allison could go home and do whatever she wanted.

Becky’s freckled nose pointed downwards as she diligently worked on her math. Allison’s seat was still empty. The crayon sat in plain view. It gleamed. I’ve never stolen anything before. My heartbeat quickened with just the thought of what I could possibly do. My head bent over a still-unfinished worksheet, I looked up furtively to see if anyone was watching. Becky was right: Allison was selfish indeed. And I was finished with being so good.
I flexed my fingers, and suddenly, I wasn’t afraid. My hand flew inside Allison’s desk. I closed my fingers around the crayon. It felt tacky, still warm from its true owner’s hand. I pulled my arm back to my body. It moved as if underwater, slowly. I stared at the foreign wrist, the forearm. I felt like I was watching myself from miles away. I stared down at the crayon- in another person’s fist, not mine. But it was in my hand, and for one moment, I felt an exhilarated sense of freedom. I’d done something I never thought I could. I stole it. Me! I had wanted something, so I’d taken it, plain and simple, and now, I’d be forever changed.

After what felt like hours, Allison returned. I pretended to be busy with my math problems as I watched her through my eyelashes. She looked inside her desk, and I waited. A beat. Two beats... She didn’t say, “Where’s my crayon?” She didn’t shout, “Somebody took it!” She didn’t raise her hand to tell the teacher, and she didn’t ask me or Becky what had happened. She shuffled about inside her desk for a few moments. “Miss Coleman! Stop dawdling and get to work!” We all jumped at Mrs. Friedman’s rasp.

Head down, Allison’s shoulders shook. When she eventually looked up, I saw the shiny path where one single tear had been.
In that moment, I really looked at her. She had always been bigger than the rest of us. Her frizzy brown hair was cut like a boy’s, and sometimes, substitute teachers even referred to her as such. Allison’s clothes were far from in style. While second grade girls knew how cool it was to wear slip-on Keds, she was always stuck wearing dirty white Reeboks. Today had been the first time I’d ever heard her mention her mother. I wondered whom else she lived with, at home.

A wave of nausea crept over me. I felt the crayon burning in my hand, and that heat traveled up my arms, shoulders, and neck. My cheeks burned with the shame of what I had done. Mrs. Friedman would surely know, with just one glance in my direction. And Allison would know, too. The bell rang for lunch. “Line order!” commanded Mrs. Friedman. I hung back, pretending to tie my shoe. I studied each lace as my classmates filed out of the room. When I looked up, the space was silent, big, and empty. I took the crayon out of my desk and looked at it again. It was both beautiful and ugly. The wax had barely any grooves on the surface from Allison’s fingernails. Only one tiny edge was slightly worn down. It had clearly been well-loved. I swallowed. My greediness had turned me into someone I didn’t want to be. Someone that steals, and hurts people. Somebody bad. Head hanging low, I slipped the crayon back to where it belonged, and headed for the cafeteria.

Reflection:

As a result of this course, I've been thinking about literacy in a very different light.  I have been reading new print and non-print texts with a lens for social justice and perspective; and my thoughts have changed significantly regarding texts that I've read before.  Within my reflections over the course of this semester, I have considered the printed texts that were used in my classroom this year.  

I have a passion for teaching writing, and within this practice, I regularly present my own work as a model for my students.  In October, I began a unit on personal narratives.  I used "The Good Girl" to model every step of my writing process.  By the time my students had published their narratives, they had learned mine by heart.  I've read this piece countless times, but when I approached the text again, I began to see possibilities that I hadn't previously considered.  In the story, I refer to James, who is twisting a paper clip in his hands, and sitting in the front row with the rest of the 'bad kids.'  His voice is missing here, and a reader may understand this part to mean, 'boys are bad.'  He's spacing out rather than working, so the reader may perceive this to mean, 'boys aren't smart,' or 'kids who misbehave aren't smart.'  In reality, I probably imagined that James was acting up because he was always considered to be academically gifted; consequently, he often exhibited boredom if he was not challenged enough.  The reader would not know this because James is silenced within the context of the story.  

Even more alarmingly, I realize that this narrative accepts the mainstream notion that stealing is wrong, therefore condemning those who steal to be classified as 'bad.'  Cadence's story in Living Poverty and Literacy Learning by Stephanie Jones resonated with me.  I need to be cognizant of the fact that some, if not many of my students have parents, older siblings, or extended family whom have stolen something at one time or another.  Jones refers to students who are, "forced to judge their own families"(464).  The acceptance of this text may have serious academic and emotional impacts for the reader whose school Discourse is secondary.  This is too big a load for any child to handle.  

I do intend on using this narrative within the course of my future teaching, but in doing so, I will ask my students to consider the following:  

•  What groups are represented here?
•  What does the text want us to believe about those groups? 
  
•  For whom or where in the story is this belief true?
  
•  For whom in the story is this belief not true?
  
•  Who benefits from this idea in the story, and in the world? 
•  What are the alternatives?
  

References:

Jones, Stephanie; Living Poverty and Literacy Learning:  Sanctioning Topics of Students' Lives.  Language Arts; July 2004