Karabet, 1

Theodore Karabet
Professor Campbell
UWRT 1103
September 16th, 2015

On Change
I realized fourth grade would be different when I got my summer assignment. Usually, I
received a small slip of paper asking me to write a report on a book of my choosing. The novels I
picked were frequented with elements of fantasy and adventure both of which highly appealed to
me; my report grades were always outstanding.
While sitting in class during the last, warm days of May, a rather large and imposing
woman entered the classroom with a chiseled face, her hair caught tightly in a bun, and glasses
warping her eyes to enormous proportions. I would have been amused by her appearance,
however, she stood much taller than most students with a towering figure and a sweeping gaze;
she expected to be revered and obeyed. The teacher was Mrs. Iwaschewiz, one of the many new
teachers the school had hired to promote a more orderly classroom setting.
Mrs. Iwaschewiz entered the class with a pile of slick, leathery, black folders. Finally,
she pronounced, it took me a while, but I finished. After allowing my third grade teacher to
hand out the stacks of assignments, Iwaschewiz returned with a stack of books. I immediately
recognized those covers; The Chronicles of Narnia were one of my favorite fantasy series of the
time. I had posters of the Wicked Witch and Aslan in my bedroom and all the books in one crisp,
hardcover, boxed set.
The thick, mysterious folder in front of me still wreaked of Iwaschewizs piercing
perfume when I opened it. You will construct a report summarizing the plot of the given book as

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well as your analysis of the characters and settings and what they represent to you. I felt a
weight drop in my stomach. I had never been asked to write such a prompt before; what did
analysis of the characters and settings even mean? The packet included several examples of
student essays about books and contained language I did not understand quite well. But this
isnt Narnia, I thought. Narnia is a place of rolling grasslands and funny animals and noble
heroes. It shouldnt be sorted and placed on a shelf to be read as a detailed report.
That assignment proved to be so alien that I postponed its completion until the last
moment. I found that I lost my general interest of books during that summer; Wonkas chocolate
factory no longer seemed appetizing and King Arthurs round table seemed a distant, foreign
relic. How could I have enjoyed reading when that assignment constantly stalked me every day
reminding me of its presence? It had revealed to me a layer of school I did not know existed. Did
the future of my schooling hold the same standards?
I got a C- on that report. That was the first C- I had ever gotten during my time at
school, but it wouldnt be my last. My parents were, naturally, disappointed in my grade. I will
never forget the feeling of embarrassment I felt after being confronted by them. Ted, they halfquestioned, half-yelled, you have never brought such grades home before. How could you have
done this to yourself? All my friends excelled at their report; I was a minority. I didnt know
how to react to that feeling. Making bad grades wasnt a part of who I was.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Iwaschewiz proved only the beginning of a much larger conspiracy.
The 2006-2007 school year proved much more alien than I had anticipated. I had never met any
of the new teachers. To prove themselves, I suppose, they gave us extra homework and enforced
strict classroom guidelines. I was being asked to cope with change, something I had never
experienced on such a scale in my life before. I struggled in every class. Coupled with the new

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teachers and their methods, I had no idea what was expected of me. The wave of embarrassment
was growing daily and to escape it, I abandoned academics completely. Since education had
stopped being a priority, I became much more active than I ever was. It was as if I was running
away from responsibility, from change.
Id like to see you outside, the stern math teacher motioned to me one day. I want to
discuss the previous test with you. I nervously followed her outside trying to avoid the stares of
my fellow classmates. They didnt need any evidence to know that Id failed it.
Im going to ask you a couple of questions so we can fix your grade.
Alright. I dared not ask what that grade was. She asked me numerous questions; I stuttered to
give her the correct answers. Standing there, with failure staring right at me, I did not move a
muscle to change the situation I was in. My brain activated a sort of intellectual hibernation since
I saw the tasks laying in front of me as impossible to complete.
I knew I wasnt doing well in school, but I found out that I failed fourth grade through a
friend. The principal visited us yesterday, she said in her usual lively tone. Since Ill be new
to the school, we invited him to give us an overview of its expectations. He told us what you did
and how you failed, by the way. I stood there, shocked. Alright, I managed to reply.
I went home and cried and cried and cried some more. My fate had been told to others
prior to myself. My very dignity was being put on the line. I felt unsafe. I felt insecure. I started
remembering the other days when success was an easy thing to come by.
It had to be luck that gave me a far different experience my second fourth-grade year.
Only one teacher was assigned to our class; his summer assignment asked to write a three-page
paper on three Sherlock Holmes novels of our choosing. I had never read Sherlock Holmes,

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however, whether it was my immunization to the standards of the previous year or the
instructions of a truly different teacher, I more-or-less understood what was expected of me. One
summer day, I found a dusty, old copy of The Complete Sherlock Holmes and began to read
again. It was as if I was rediscovering a lost art I buried deep within myself during the past year.
The word arrangement and vocabulary were strange, however, I persevered and adapted. Every
day, I was drawn more eagerly to the literature. Who could resist Watsons brilliant narrative of
the enigmatic mind of his sleuth friend? Time flew by and I had written my report rather
confidently by the end of July. Come August, I would have to turn it in.
What did you make on your report? asked Mom.
Guess, said I beaming with anticipation. I could not instantly reveal the A I received; I had
to win back my pride somehow, after all.
With our new teacher, the class frequently left the concrete innards of the school. The
Golden Gate Park was a hot, humid, 30-minute walk, but it was worth it. Besides, the walk
would be filled with trivia about the books and authors we were currently exploring. We usually
arrived to a secluded corner of the park where hardly anyone walked. We sat down on the grass
or on old logs near ponds and forests pulsing with water, and began to read. The books we read
were far more complex than any I had read before; these contained pages of vivid details waiting
to be analyzed and words no one had used for quite some time. The books werent easy reads.
But the class, a small group of ten-or-so, was assigned characters which we all enjoyed
personifying. Character analysis here was an opportunity, not a task, a delight, not a duty. The
second fourth-grade year wasnt easy, but I made it out alive and well.