The only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun
That final year of high school, we all died. We were going to face that shadow guard to our IB certificate (or diploma), that infamous man, Mr. Campbell.
Creative Writing and Journalism—Mrs. B
In my second half of high school, I sank my teeth into writing endeavors under a single teacher who would come to be one of the most influential teachers I would ever have: Mrs. Barbour.
11th grade: Mr. Bolte.
Junior year began the actual IB classes, incredibly rigorous examinations of difficult literature. We had to think more critically than ever before. Some of my friends were full IB, all 4 core classes plus like 2 or 3 extra being IB level. I would have died. And because I was not full IB, I felt the pressure to display my intelligence to my peers. But I also still wanted to be a goofball.
10th grade: Mrs. Carter.
I did not like Mrs. Carter. This is important, because she was the first English teacher I decided I didn’t really care for. It wasn’t because she wasn’t good. She cared about us tremendously, employed creative means to educate us, and was always positive. But it’s important for me to know why.
9th grade: Mr. Robinson
In 9th grade it got real. We were in Pre-IB English, and it wasn’t for sissies any more. This was going to be hard. We suddenly had to dive into literature like never before. We had to do this new thing called analyzing. We had to provide specific proof. Enter Mr. Robinson, the most odd English teacher yet.
8th grade: I was a big dog on middle school campus. I felt both able and allowed to be mischievous. And throughout most of the year I had mixed feelings about Mrs. Humphrey, the short, stern-faced, saccharine, classically PTA-mom-like teacher of my final middle school year.