One Flew Over The English Class

The fog thickens around me.  I cannot even see my essay lying on the desk.  After struggling to find a rhythm with my pen and brain, I feel as if I have reached a steady pace to write with insight and intelligence while adhering to the time constraints.  But as soon as I feel like the clock is ticking in my favor during this in-class essay, The Teacher calls out "ten minutes."  I can barely hear her, for as she says it the fog simultaneously spreads and clouds my hearing and vision.  At this point, I am confident that at least I am better off than some, the "Juniors" as we call them.  These are the guys who use this notification as a reminder to begin their examples.  Even they themselves don't think they will pass the AP test.  I had been a junior for a long time, as many of us were.  But I've been here for a long time.  With summer and college quickly approaching, most of us should be getting out soon.  We are called the "Seniors," and have shown signs of improvement since our arrival.  For the most part we finish our essays and can analyze poetry and novels pretty well, with only a few mistakes here and there.  Even the best of us can forget to mention who exactly the author or poet is trying to evoke the emotion from when he/she applies pathos.

I look across the room and can barely make out McHurtuk in the fog, the newest student to join us.  His rebellious ways have repeatedly bothered The Teacher, and recently he has tried to get us all to revolt against her.  But none of us want to cause any trouble, because we all know the consequences: Data Sheets.  Unspeakable punishment that occurs once or twice a quarter.  Other times she gives us poems, short little pieces of writing who's elusive meaning and literary devices have kept many of us up late on Sunday nights. But nonetheless, right now I need to squeeze in one more example before I move towards audience and purpose.  The fog thickens so I cannot even see my pen in my hand before my very eyes.  How will I finish this essay?

I have a choice: I could try and fight through the fog, finding my notebook paper on the desk and finishing the conclusion, or I could give in to the fog, and find temporary peace as I let it surround me.  Sometimes giving in to the fog is so easy, because I don't have to bear the thought of scrambling for a completed essay.  But this upsets The Teacher, and I dread her wrath and grade book more than I do the trouble of feeling my way through the fog.  Quickly, my pen flies over the page, writing what I hope are coherent sentences.  But before I know it, "times up, put your pens down."