When I was in grade and middle school, I used to think of English class as a means to an end, a sort of avenue to a limitless literary repertoire - nailing the standard five-paragraph essay format, understanding different techniques and figurative language, studying multiple types of clauses. I'm doing it. And I'm doing well! I'd frequently remark.
Little did I know that in high school my understanding of the English language and of literature would undergo a subtle shift, one that I'm only able to continually discern when I reflect upon my literary experience.
In high school, English class became a time for me to constantly voice my budding thoughts. It empowered me to find my sense of identity through vocal collaboration and reflection. It encouraged me to run for Student Government positions and to join different clubs.
I remember the day when I realized that I was deceiving myself by believing that I had mastered my literary voice. I was so accustomed to what I deemed standard essay writing that when a piece, which I thought had fit the established status quo, was heavily critiqued, I had a bittersweet epiphany. My writing was not mastered. Quite far from it, honestly. Sure, it was well-written with eloquent convention; however, were the emotions I felt about that particular text being accurately conveyed by my writing? Or were they being bogged down by my fantastical impression that good writing consists of 5 paragraphs, 3 quotes per body paragraph, 2 lines of analysis after each one sentence-quote, and elevated and convoluted syntax?
It was hard for me to acknowledge my literary shortfall. It was even harder for me to accept that I had to CHANGE parts of my writing style in order to improve. Revisions were indispensable. Revisions are indispensable.
That's not to say that the standard method of writing which I had dearly learned and heavily been attached to is inferior, or less laudable, to these revisions that I've made. I just knew that the only way my writing could be a better representation of me and, thus, my identity would be to find my own voice first. Through failure. Through success. Through strict structure. Through no structure. Through individual autonomy, most importantly.
English class, I soon grasped, was neither a core requirement nor a gateway to mastering English literature. Instead, English class has broadened the way I think, interact, communicate, and write. It has been a journey in itself that has anchored my personal values and has instilled a passion of awareness and love within me.
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