11A Ｗｒitiｎg for Mysｅlf
Ruｓｓell Baker
Ｔhｅ idｅａ ｏf becoming a ｗriter had cｏme tｏ me off and on sｉnce my ｃhiｌｄhood iｎ Ｂellevillｅ, but ｉt ｗaｓn't until ｍy thｉrｄ year in ｈigh sｃhool ｔhat the posｓibiｌｉty took hｏld． Until then I 'd been boreｄ by everyｔhing associａtｅd wｉｔh Enｇlｉsh cｏurses。 I ｆounｄ Engｌｉsh grａmmar dulｌ aｎd diｆfｉｃult. I hａｔｅd ｔhｅ aｓｓｉgnments ｔo ｔurｎ out long, liｆelｅss paｒaｇraphs that wｅre aｇｏｎｙ for teａｃhｅrs to rｅad and foｒ mｅ tｏ wｒｉte。
Ｗheｎ ｏur clasｓ ｗａs ａsｓigｎｅd to Mｒ。 Fleａgle for tｈird－year Eｎglish Ｉ ａｎticipated anothｅr cｈeerｌess yｅaｒ in thａt moｓt tedｉous of sｕbjecｔs. Mr。 Fｌeaｇｌe had a ｒepｕtation among studenｔs for ｄuｌlnesｓ and ｉnabilｉtｙ to ｉｎｓpire． Hｅ was ｓaid to be very forｍａl, rigｉｄ ａｎd ｈopelesslｙ oｕt of ｄate． To me he lookｅd tｏ be ｓixty or seｖeｎty and ｅxcｅssiveｌy prim。 Ｈe ｗore primlｙ severe ｅyｅｇｌａssｅｓ， hiｓ waｖy ｈair was pｒimlｙ cｕt aｎd ｐｒｉmly cｏmbeｄ. Ｈe worｅ pｒim suits with necｋｔｉeｓ ｓeｔ pｒimly agａｉnsｔ ｔｈｅ colｌar ｂｕttｏｎs oｆ his ｗｈitｅ shiｒts. He had a primly ｐointed jaw， a ｐｒimly strａighｔ nose， ａｎｄ ａ prim ｍanｎer of ｓpeaｋing that waｓ so correcｔ， so genｔｌemanｌy， ｔｈat hｅ sｅemｅd ａ cｏmic antiquｅ.
I prepａred foｒ aｎ uｎfruitfuｌ yeaｒ wiｔh Ｍr. Fｌeａgｌｅ anｄ for ａ lｏng time was nｏt dｉsａｐpｏinteｄ． Laｔe in the ｙear we taｃkleｄ thｅ ｉnｆormal essaｙ。 Ｍｒ． Fleagle disｔrｉbuｔeｄ a homeworｋ sｈeｅｔ offeｒinｇ us a choice oｆ toｐｉcs。 Ｎone wａs ｑｕｉte sｏ simpｌe-mindeｄ ａs “Ｗｈａt I Ｄid on My Ｓuｍmer Vaｃａｔion,” ｂut mｏst seemed to bｅ aｌmoｓｔ as ｄuｌｌ. I took thｅ ｌist hoｍe aｎd did noｔｈing until thｅ nigｈｔ before the essay wａs due。 Lyｉｎｇ ｏn tｈe sｏfa, I ｆinaｌly ｆａｃed up tｏ tｈｅ unwelcome tａsｋ， ｔｏoｋ the list oｕt ｏf my noteｂook， aｎｄ scannｅd it。 Thｅ ｔoｐic oｎ whiｃh mｙ eye sｔopped was “The Ａrt of Ｅａｔing Spaghetti.”
Tｈis tiｔle proｄuceｄ an extraordinａry sequeｎce oｆ menｔａｌ ｉmages。 Ｖｉviｄ memories caｍe fｌooｄiｎg bacｋ of a ｎｉght iｎ Ｂellevｉｌｌe when all oｆ ｕｓ wｅｒe ｓeatｅd ａrｏuｎd tｈe suppeｒ tablｅ—U
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