The Other Scarlet Letter by Sarai

The Other Scarlet Letter by Sarai - July 2016 Scholarship Essay

I nervously fiddled my thumbs as I waited for what seemed like forever to get my paper back. It was the longest, toughest, most draining paper I had written in my 17 years of life. Of course, that’s what one would expect in Mrs. Supple’s class. More like a literature and grammatical boot camp than a class, the AP English course was not one to be taken lightly. Strangely enough, I was actually feeling confident about the grade. It was a nervous, gut wrenching confidence, but confidence nonetheless. After spending hours reading, interpreting, and analyzing the novel, The Scarlet Letter, I figured I had put in way too much work to not get a perfect grade. Little did I know, I was about to be the recipient of my own scarlet letter.
“Wingate,” Mrs. Supple smiled, plopping the paper face down on my desk. I slowly peeled the corner up peeking at the letter scribbled in red. I quickly flipped it over not really understanding what I had seen.
“B++?” A confused gasp escaped my lips. No explanation, no red marks, only a grade. I stared down at the giant red mark as a frown settled onto my face. The second plus was a shot to my 17 year old ego. It taunted me reminding me the paper wasn’t quite good enough. I was almost a good writer. It was nearly an A. The scarlet letter at the top of my paper had become just as demeaning and damaging to my pride as the scarlet letter in the novel. I worked too hard on this paper for a B++. Whatever that was. This was only something Mrs. Supple could conjure up. She was as sweet as she was ruthless, and as tough as she was polite. I knew I had to talk to her after class. I was going to make her like my paper.
“Mrs. Supple,” I asked nervously. “Why did I get a B++?” I wanted explanation, I wanted admiration, I wanted an A- -. Instead, she gave me something much more valuable: criticism.
After critiquing and explaining all the issues with my essay she summed it up with “It just wasn’t quite there.” Those words echoed in my head. I wasn’t used to critique. I wasn’t used to someone not liking my work. Then, I started to realize something. Her words weren’t a jab at me. They didn’t define who I was as a person or a writer. They were a reason to work harder. It was a hard pill to swallow at first, but I realized this wouldn’t be the last time someone would critique something of mine, or dislike something I had worked so hard on. And I had to learn that was ok.
The rest of the semester I fell short of perfection numerous times, but I didn’t allow it to be a shot to my pride. Mrs. Supple’s tough love and firm but fair attitude not only humbled me, but pushed me to do better. I’d talk to her after class, now embracing her constructive criticism and working hard to turn the B’s into A’s. Later, I learned the lessons Mrs. Supple taught me weren’t just confined to her classroom, they were essential in the real world. I took these principles with me to college, and found myself especially clinging to them in my chosen career field of graphic design. As subjective as it can be, I am constantly allowing myself and my work to be judged. Because I no longer cringe at critique, I’m able to proudly put my work out there, and accept the praise along with the punches. I now know if my work isn’t liked, it doesn’t mean I’m a bad graphic designer, or that I’m not good enough. It simply means I have opportunity to improve on my craft.
My teacher, Mrs. Supple, prepared me for the real world with a lesson that can’t be taught from a book, but must be experienced first hand: how to deal with the sting of criticism. If it weren’t for Mrs. Supple, I wouldn’t have pushed myself to work harder, and I would’ve gone on believing I was a faultless student. No doubt, I would have been in for a rude awakening the first time a college professor gave me a C, or a client rejected my artwork had it not been for her tough love. Because of her, I use criticism as fuel for improvement. As much as I would’ve loved to change that B++, I would never change the lessons she taught me from it.