Mr. Jones

Why I didn’t write for twenty years.

Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash

It was January of 1995, and I was in the ninth grade. I had turned in a research paper that was, if I remember correctly, to count as four test scores for the marking period.

A few days later, Mr. Jones, my English teacher, asked to see me after class. He accused me of plagiarism. He said there was no way I wrote It. I told him I did. He asked me to redo it, and when I refused, he got angry.

He exclaimed, “A Sophomore in college couldn’t write a paper this good!” I told him, “I’m not taking it back. Those are my words.” He told me what a huge favor he was doing for me. That I had used words and sentences most high schoolers were incapable of. He threatened to check every source. I stood my ground, telling him, “Go right ahead.”

A few days later, I was in English class. Mr. Jones was handing out the graded papers. He walked past me, dropping it on my desk indifferently, not saying a thing. He gave me a 90.

I remember wondering if he would ask me to stay after class. If he was going to tell me what a good job I did. He did not. In fact, he never said a word, and neither did I. I also remember thinking that a research paper as good as he claimed deserved a 95. I was disappointed with the grade.

I was a lazy student, but I worked hard on that paper. I had dreams of being a reporter and novelist. To this day, I wonder why he didn’t offer words of encouragement. How might those words have changed my career trajectory and attitude toward school? What if — what if he gave me a pat on the back? People need that sometimes.

On the whole, it did not occur to me that the paper may not have deserved a 95 grade until many years later. That, perhaps his words were meant to coerce a confession of plagiarism. Still, after that incident, I did not attempt to write anything worth reading for over twenty years.

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Writing at BarryFralick.com