Rules, am not talking about the rules that are

Rules, I have never really liked
rules. I have always loved to do things my own way. That is just how I am. Now,
I am not talking about the rules that are put in place to ensure my safety. No,
those rules are fine. I am referring to the rules and regulations that put me,
creatively, inside a box. A box that contains ideas, where any individual
daring enough to step outside of the boundaries of this ethereal jail cell will
receive a penalty.

            Monday
morning, I walk into class early. I have a strong scent of confidence lingering
around me. Immediately, I do my bell ringer and put the finishing touches on my
cause and effect essay. Everybody else is still working on his or her second
drafts; I am ahead of the game. After double-checking my work, turning it in, I
check the board. “Mrs. Allgood,” I said, “I’m done for the day, what are we
doing next class?”

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“We’re starting our narrative
essays.” My eyes lit up almost as if signaling the changing of gears within my
brain. “You can start on your brainstorm if that’s what you’re asking.” I am
already filing through ideas in my mind. I dash over to Zach’s desk to share my
plans and get some feedback. We bounce ideas off of each other while
speculating about the impact this essay will have on our teacher. She will
surely be utterly dumbfounded. This essay is going to be gold.

            I
make my way back to my desk and try to contain the flow of creativity. “This is
going to be one for the books,” I thought to myself. ” This might even make me
famous! What if I get to meet the President? Well…never mind, I don’t really
want to do that”. My messy binder, with numerous papers strewn throughout, was
no longer just a binder. It was a canvas, an invitation, an outlet for all my
built up enthusiasm. It beckoned me and I accepted this invitation with nothing
short of complete determination and a will to be phenomenal. I pick up my pen
and begin to write. My fingers glide across the never-ending plane. My options
are limitless. My essay quickly becomes a masterpiece in the making. Before I
realize it, I have already finished my first draft. We have two minutes left in
class, and everybody else is just now finishing up their brainstorms. The bell
rings and I go on with my day.

            Wednesday
morning, I briskly walk into class because I am ready to get to work on my
essay. All of a sudden, Zach’s voice catches my attention. He says my essay
might not be deemed “appropriate”.  My
heart drops. “There’s no way!” I thought, trying to reassure myself. “This is
too good, surely she would not turn down all of my hard work.” I am freaking
out. I feel my adrenaline start to rise as I slowly walk toward my teacher’s
desk. It takes me years to push my question out. My mouth is fighting to open.
Slowly, I force myself to ask the one question that I do not want the answer
to. My words seemed to linger in the air for minutes before receiving the
dreaded response.

            Emptiness
is the only word that can be used to describe my emotional state. I feel as if
a part of me has died. All my hard work, determination, and time had been
wasted. Out the window, down the drain, and gone without a second thought. She
shot me down without a single indication of empathy. “What can I write about
now? Is it even worth it to restart?” These thoughts run through my mind with
no answer to be found.

After deliberating
and sulking, I decide I might as well try again.  Never again will I take on an assignment
without properly familiarizing myself with the rules pertaining to it. My
rudimentary effort to redeem myself began. From this experience, I learned that
regardless of the final product, rules are rules, and they will stand.