Final Draft of "Gift I'd Like to Give"

Few were like him. He could move mountains with his vocabulary. He could make children cry with his metaphors. He is also the proud father of several works of poetry. No one knows how he does it, but most can agree with one thing: he is one of the greatest English instructors the world has ever seen.

Ever since I began to read, I have always wanted to write. I can’t explain why, but I always had a huge desire for the paper and pen. It’s so fascinating to me how one could just go into their own little world and leave all the rest behind, to express thoughts, emotions, and experiences with only a stick in your hand.

I moved up in the ranks—ran through elementary school, dragged myself through middle school, then I finally made it—the teenage drama smorgasbord they call high school. I was just another bit of plaque clogging the arteries of Lone Peak. I arrived at school bright and early, and I was prepared for a long first day.

That is, until I showed up to English class.

The moment I entered the classroom I knew I was in for a ride. I was early, and I don’t think I could have arrived at a better time. The desks were all arranged in a circle, and the teacher was sitting on a single desk in the middle of the room, letting his feet dangle. He was younger, and he had a little five o’ clock shadow sported on his chin.

I looked at him, he looked at me. I knew him from the football field, and it was strange to see him in the classroom teaching rather than coaching. He told me to have a seat. I did so, knowing little about what was to come in the year to come. After all, he was only a football coach right? I mean, how much can he actually know about teaching?

Kyle Nelson was just another guy out of the U of U, but to me he was much more. He was a mentor, a leader, a friend, a co-worker. He knew the right way to teach. He knew some things were easier to inspire than to assign. And most of all, he knew how to develop each of our own specialized voices. His goal, it seemed, was to mold (through us) creativity by getting us thinking. None of us could have ever really gotten much out of any other class than Mr. Nelson’s course.

Mr. Nelson, here’s my gift I’d like to give to you (which may not seem like much); my thanks.

Every day we would walk into his room with a frown glued on our faces, and we would see the title of the daily journal prompt on the board. Instantly, our depression, stress and fatigue were all washed away with feelings of wonder, thought and excitement. No one would know what exactly it was we were about to write about, until he told us. Well, there was one time when… no, never mind.

The assignments in the class were thrilling. I could taste my excitement. I could hear my ideas screaming at me, yearning to be written on a blank page. I could write with confidence, realizing why I appreciated the art for so long. I could finally write the novels I always desired to.

The creativity juices were flowing. Writing, after so many years of being assignment after assignment, had finally become enjoyable and fun for me once more. I could feel myself let go of all the textbook-defined essays and just let go. My quality of work was improving dramatically. I knew exactly how to put my ideas down on paper.

I didn’t need all those rules. I didn’t need strict teachers breathing down my neck, making writing feel like much more of a chore than a work of art. Mr. Nelson solved those problems with his innovative methods of teaching. Without them, I would be lost. I’d be stuck. I’d still just be another bit of plaque clogging arteries.

So in the end, I think it all comes down to this: I’d like to thank Mr. Nelson for the voice I have begun to discover within myself. Nelson, continue with your work. Writing will never die.