[title of show]

[title of show] "Die Vampire Die"

You sketched that turtle you say on an ad on late-night cable TV
                  - Tippy Turtle!
But your fourth grade teacher said
                  - You can't draw,
Oh those vampires just won't let you be
                  - F*ck you Ms. Johnston. Wurd.

You know what you don't do to a second grader when you're a teacher? Bully them. Humiliate them. Make them cry. You just don't do it. You don't suggest they go to a special school; you realize that their parents can't help them with their English homework and reading. You don't give up because they can't complete a mad-minute; you help them with their numbers. You don't ruin their self-confidence with snide remarks that they don't quite understand the meaning of, but grasp the undertone. You don't undermine their determination and concede to enroll them in ESL.  

But then again; 

Pity the child, but not forever,
Not if he stays that way.
Pity instead the careless Mother,
What she missed when she lost
When she let me go

Okay, far cry from a perfect metaphor, but the feeling's all the same. Pity the child then, for what he was, but not now, for what he become because of it. Pity the oppressor, or rather the enabler (in a weird twisted way), pity them for dismissing the child and in turn losing what it is that that child became. 

Mr. D pointed out to me once, that her influence in my life was probably why I did so well in English (and Math... until 30P... evil 30P). That there's something down there inside of me wanting to prove her wrong. That she did something to me, instilled some sort of drive in me, some sort of yearning that's caused my intrigue with writing.

I have no doubt that my love for theatre is genuine and heartfelt- it's an innate part of me that I cannot explain. It's a part of me as much as my arm or leg, something that I'm constantly feeling the absence of. 

And because I've discovered that love the way I have- with support and with positive encouragement I can't help but feel that my love for writing is somewhat tainted. 

Instead of discovering it positively, I was bullied into it; I can't help but wonder now... 

When I got my Grade Nine Achievement tests back it was, "Take that Mrs. M you (censored)!" 

When I got my Grade Ten English marks, my Eleven, my Twelve it was, "See how wrong you were!"

I hate that she'll always be a part of me. I hate that something I love so much has the ability to remind me of her. I hate that I'm inclined to blame my childhood experience on her... and I hate that some part of me wonders if I'd be doing what I was doing if it weren't for her. 

I wouldn't change my childhood for anything, because it made me stronger and it's made me into who I am today. And I kind of like who I am. It's helped me come to terms with facts like, People change, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. But nine times out of ten, you'll regret cutting contact with them, even if you don't particularly like them, so don't do it. It's taught me that some people are insecure with themselves so they have to project an image of confidence to avoid getting hurt. It's taught me that jealously rises without merit, and when acted on, usually ends up harming the wrong person. It's taught me that it's okay to make best friends without the fear of desertion- people move on, people change and there's nothing you can do so make the best of it while you can.