I was in second grade during 2016. At that time, it did not occur to me that there could be anything outside of home and school. I looked forward to chasing my siblings through our long hallway after school until dinner, shower, bed—and repeat. There was no work. I didn’t have to worry about the world and the hardships that would come with it.

Then, suddenly there was. One by one, my older sisters were whisked away to something called a “writing class” that was led by a Mr. Fred Lobb. It sounded harmless at first, but soon I heard the horror stories. It came with something else called “homework.” An essay in class, another essay for homework. Memorize vocabulary words, write sentences using those words and underline the verbs. Read a book, write a summary, repeat. To me, it sounded like the end of freedom. A new kind of chore disguised as “learning.”

For a while, I was safe. I’d watch my sisters hunched over their notebooks while I ran around the house, free as ever. I’d tease them for having to put in effort, and they’d glare at me like I’d just cursed them with another essay. That didn’t last long, and soon it was my turn. My parents dropped me off at the front door of a building in a Temple City plaza.

I liked it. “It wasn’t that hard,” I told my sisters. They smirked, knowing full well that wouldn’t last. Eventually, I got my first essay back, and it was so bad Mr. Lobb didn’t even want to read the rest of it, leaving his infamous “I stopped here…” on the back page. After that, I hated it. I hated having to write multiple essays every week. I hated having to memorize vocabulary words. I hated having to do something I didn’t want to do. However, there was one assurance that Mr. Lobb gave on the very first day, and I took it to heart: “There will be a day when your writing is so good that I’ll let your parents know you can stop coming to class.” Those words were my motivation to start trying.

Weeks turned into months. Months turned to years. Hook, thesis, evidence, and conclusion became second nature. Essays became second nature. It was the place I let my imagination take control and explain my thoughts and thinking on relevant, contemporary topics. I started to understand what Mr. Lobb meant when he crossed things out or scribbled comments in the margins. The A’s on top of my essays started to roll in, one after another, and I finally understood what it meant to earn them.

I owe the reason I am in The Quill to him. To me, he wasn’t just a writing coach; he wasn’t just a former teacher at San Marino High School, but an accomplished author of several books on Chinese folktales and a self-taught, fluent Mandarin speaker. Most importantly, he was the person who taught me to appreciate writing not just as a subject, but as a way to express myself and to grow. Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. Lobb!

PHOTO COURTESY OF JAN KAHANEK ON UNSPLASH.COM