You Don't Know You by Jacob

You Don't Know You by Jacob - July 2016 Scholarship Essay

I am burning with envy. Mr. Garfinkel, our tall, long-haired English teacher had selected three essays to read to the class. We had handed them in a month back and he wanted to show the class what well-written material sounded like. His lilting voice wafted over our heads from the front of the room, reading first one, then another entry. Always the critic, I wasn't terribly impressed. I was disappointed not having heard mine recited - I knew I was a good writer.
As Garfinkel launches into the last rendering, my ears perk up. The descriptions were vivd; a boat and it’s passenger drifting aimlessly on a pond; a hand trailing over the edge of the vessel drawing a path amongst lilies and dragonflies. And on and on. I could imagine myself there! I close my eyes and felt the warmth of mid afternoon sun against my chest...
The next moment the burning in my cheeks far surpasses the imagined warmth of the August sun described by the author’s pen. I hadn't written those words. Someone in the class had written this piece that I was envious of.
Variations of words that had echoed their way through all my years of primary and middle school reverberate through my mind now: "Jacob could accomplish much more" "Lacks self-confidence" "If he believed in his abilities, he could go far".
I glance around the room of listening students, searching faces, searching for the author. My eyes light upon some of the other talents in the class. Nussbaum? Berman? It was impossible to tell from their blank faces. I bury my head in my arms, waiting for this to end, for the envy to find a target.
Mr. Garfinkel’s voice trails off, having finished the piece. He looks up at the class. I peek up at him over my arms.
“Wasn’t that beautiful?” I burn hotter, burying my red cheeks deeper down.
“Who wrote it?” asked Nussbaum.
“Why, Franky, did… don’t you recognize your writing?”
As he turns toward me, the lesson that a dozen years of report cards and meetings with teachers had failed to teach me landed. I could. I would. I am.