"Why is it you don't like to write?" I asked him. He was so hard-headed child I'd ever met. He hated paper and pen. He hated writing.
I went home with frustration, frustrated about the pupil I was teaching. School year-end was approaching still I’d never seen that lad writing, holding a pen, talking with paper through his handwriting. No A, no B, no C nor just a simple I. Now, I have learned to hate him but I was also keeping myself calm and pursue to teach him with patient.
On the other hand, I don’t have a problem. He was so active in my class. Actually, he was talkative, very enthusiast to learn but not in writing. I don’t know why. He never told me.
I had done all my very best to bestow the learning I have and impart with them all what is needed. The school year eventually ended. I let him graduate with honors in my class looking forward that he is going to love writing on the next other years.
Years faded away. With all of the pupils I have handled for so many years as a preparatory teacher, the one who hated writing never leave my consciousness. I am wondering. Where is my pupil before? The boy who hate writing, where he is?
I don’t have any news about that unique boy until the time I received a letter with attachments. I was surprised. The letter told about his achievements in life. I immediately scanned the attachment, a magazine. I was so overwhelmed when I saw his own story entitles “My Preparatory Teacher and My Handwriting.” I already knew that it was dedicated to me.
From the story written by him, I’ve got the reason why he didn’t like to write before.
“I hate writing before because I hate my pen. I know that it was not my handwriting, it is pen’s possession. I don’t own those letters, words, paragraphs. . .” I quietly laughed after reading those lines. But later form the story something prickled my heart.
“Though I see writing that way, I still love it unlike what my teacher thought. Yes, it’s pen’s handwriting, but the content and the blood flowing from the veins of each letter, word, paragraph is mine. It’s my property. I let my blood flow through the pen to paper. Thanks to my dear preparatory teacher, he encouraged me to write, not only A, B, C or 1, 2, 3 but also the living symbols, the living language, the living me.”
I started to admire his writing. Actually, of all the content of the magazine, his part was only one which is truly handwritten, not computerized. Though not so good [the handwriting], the essence radiated up to me as a reader. The pen’s handwriting is good, his writing is better.
Writing is meant to me as different. I love to write and that was me.
