It’s a fact: I hated Mrs.
Pappageorge. For crying out loud, she
wasn’t even a PhD… she was just Mrs.
Pappageorge. She was my tormentor,
and I was her favorite whipping boy.
I thought it preposterous that
I should have to take Freshman
Composition: English 101 at all. After
all, I was a great writer. My high school
teachers had often told me so. I was
clear, I was concise, and my writing
flowed well. I could produce better
writing in fewer words than most of
my peers used. Furthermore, I had
a great sense of humor that came
across well in my essays.
Here I was a high school graduate,
24th in a class of 434, and very
accomplished in the arts. What a
fallacy it was for me to have to waste
my time in Freshman Composition.
You could “test out” of a lot of
introductory classes, but this one was
an exception. You had to take it.
Fine then, I should get an easy “A”.
Mrs. Pappageorge had other ideas.
She made us buy books; I believe it
was four different ones… four! For a
lousy course in how to write in English,
after all I had accomplished, I had
to spend some serious cash on four
different books that I did not need.
The time finally came for me to
establish my credibility and dazzle
this woman with my brilliant writing.
We had received our first assignment.
I remember nothing of what the topic
was, whether it had been assigned or
was my choice, how many words were
required, or anything else about it. All
I remember was that I got a “C”. The
very idea – it was incomprehensible
to me! I had always been an “A”
student. Needless to say, I was in
shock, and not a little bit angry. Who
did this woman think she was?
I studied my paper, replete with
red circles, lines, arrows, and snarky
comments. So what if I ended
sentences with prepositions. Wasn’t
that how people really spoke? Who
cared if my sentences had mixed
tenses? People did that all the time.
I was clever, dammit; couldn’t she
see that? Passive expression? Who
really even knew what that was? This
woman was obviously very full of
herself, and very nit-picky.
I had never had a teacher who so
strongly criticized my writing for the
sake of such meaningless little rules,
or for anything else, for that matter. I
used unnecessary words, I repeated
some words too often, I did not use
certain words in proper context, and
I was given to awkward phraseology.
This woman was clearly oblivious to
my talent.
It happened again the next week…
and the week after that. I finally
decided that it was time for a one-
on-one with Mrs. Pappageorge. I
confronted her after class, ready for
a fight. She surprised me.
“Tim, you’re a very talented writer.
I love the way in which you express
your thoughts. Why don’t you want to
become better at it?” she asked.
This had never occurred to me. The
very notion that I needed to improve
was foreign to me. I stubbornly
resisted the realization that I was not
the best that I could be, but I could
not escape the truth. I never asked
myself why, but I finally had to admit
that I didn’t realize how much room
there was for improvement.
I began to follow her suggestions.
To my utter amazement, not only did
my grades improve, but I began to
enjoy being critical of my own writing.
For the first time in my life, I was going
back and critiquing my own work, and
seeing better ways in which to express
myself in the written word. I began
to realize that I had always used my
talent as a crutch; my first drafts
had been good enough to satisfy my
high school teachers, so I had never
bothered to go back and polish them.
Toward the end of the semester, I
began to get A’s on my papers. I had
finally learned the importance of good
composition. My talent had always
been there; now I knew how to make
the most of it. Mrs. Pappageorge gave
me an “A” for the semester. I should
have thanked her, but I never did. I
still thought I hated her.
At this point, I’d like to fast-
forward in time to my parent-teacher
conference with my eldest child’s
6th grade teacher, Mr. Fitpatrick.
“Mr. Fitz” was beloved by all of his
students and their parents, in spite of
the heavy workload that he typically
assigned. Mr. Fitz said something
to me that struck a chord. He said,
“When you expect nothing from a
child, that’s exactly what you get.
When you expect everything from a
child, he will realize his potential.”
My thoughts flooded back to my
Freshman Composition nemesis, Mrs.
Pappageorge. I realized that Mr. Fitz
was exactly right. I had observed as
much on my own with my daughter…
and now I understood my misdirected
hatred for Mrs. Pappageorge. She had
done me a huge favor. My teachers in
high school had never expected more
from me than I gave them. Instead,
they heaped praise upon me, for they
recognized my talent. They had me
believing that I was so good that I
didn’t need to become any better.
I can only hope that someday,
wherever she may be, Mrs.
Pappageorge has the opportunity to
read this. Of all the English teachers I
ever had in my college career, nearly
40 years later hers is the only name
I can remember. Thank you, Mrs.
Pappageorge. I’m sorry this is so late.
Editor’s Note
For more information, call
540-721-1203
or
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Bridgewater Plaza
• Children 12 and Under FREE • Rain or Shine
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For more info, contact the SML Visitor’s o ce:
540.721.1203
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