Thank you, Mrs. Rutherford for helping me believe that I am a writer.







After dinner, Phylicia and her two sisters cleared the table. It was her turn to wash, one sister rinsed, the other dried, and momma put them away.
“Are y’all excited for school tomorrow,” momma asked no one in particular.
“Yeah,” they all chimed in nonchalantly.
“Just know it’s going to be different,” she said.

Different? Being almost nine years old about to enter into the fourth grade, Phylicia did not really understand what her mother meant, but it did not sound good. She had always made good grades at her old school. The day she and her sisters were told they should not come back there because the school district was losing its accreditation (whatever that meant) she cried.
“They may not like you,” momma continued, “but you’re there to learn.”
The thought of not being liked pierced through her mind like a sharp knife. Her family was loved. ‘The Hodges Girls,’ is what everyone would call them.
“Do your best, keep your head down, and don’t speak unless you are spoken to,” momma put the cup in the cabinet.
This was the traditional lecture when going to church, the store, or when her mother had an important meeting. They got it.

“Let me know if anyone says something mean. You don’t handle it, I will,” momma stopped and looked at her girls. They all nodded in understanding.
Phylicia slipped into bed at the opposite end of her sister, unsure if the knot in her stomach was from the excitement she had felt every other night before the first day of school, or if it was something else.

Later that year, Mrs. Rutherford gathered her students around the carpet to listen as she read, “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie” by Laura Numeroff, illustrated by Felicia Bond. It was a funny story and Phylicia really liked how much mischief that mouse got himself into. That was, until her teacher said they would have to write their own story just like it.


She showed them examples of other books they could use to help them, as well as a few stories from some of her previous students. Mrs. Rutherford then sent her students back to their desks and the writing process began. Well, not for Phylicia. She just sat at her desk trying to think of a really good idea.




This was the first writing assignment of the year and the other fourth graders were already talking about the types of stories they would write. All she could think about was how she had gone from being on the A honor roll to not even knowing what that meant anymore. Phylicia put her head down and stared at the blank page in front of her. Moving the pencil around in circles, she prayed the letters would form.
“Phylicia,” slowly lifting her head, she saw Mrs. Rutherford crouched down beside her.
“I’m trying to think of what to write,” she said quickly so the teacher knew she was not sleeping.
“Well, what do you like to do,” she asked.
“Dancing, singing,” basically nothing she could do here, she thought.
“Okay. Write those down. What’s your favorite food,” the teacher continued.




“I guess pizza and corn,” only the best school lunch ever.
“Okay, can you put those together for your story,” Mrs. Rutherford asked.
“If you give a dancer a pizza,” Phylicia asked.
“I think that sounds great,” Mrs. Rutherford stood up. “Try and think of some more ideas,” and with that she was on to the next student.
It sounded like a dumb idea to Phylicia, so she tried, “If you give a violin player some corn?”
No. “If you give a singer some cake?”
Finally, she settled on the “If You Give a Dancer a Pizza” idea and called it a day.




Phylicia got her paper from the printer and tore the frills from the sides. Mrs. Rutherford called her name and slowly she walked the paper to her desk so it could be read. Phylicia sat nervously for what seemed like hours waiting for her teacher to finish. Reading, then writing. Then, reading, then writing.
“What do you like about it,” she asked her.
Nothing, Phylicia thought.
“The part at the end when she gets the pizza again,” she shrugged.
“Okay,” Mrs. Rutherford responded.
“I’m not really sure about the dancer part,” Phylicia stammered. “Maybe I should change it to a singer eating cake or something.” That idea did sound a bit more interesting now that she thought about it.






“You have a lot of great ideas, but let’s stick with this one for now, and then you can write another story after this one is done,” the teacher suggested.
“Okay.” This was a nice thought since she was not limited to just one idea anymore.
Mrs. Rutherford told her how she liked several parts of her story and worked with Phylicia on what she could do to make some of the other parts a little stronger so that her audience understood what she was trying to say.




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Thank you, Mrs. Rutherford for helping me believe that I am a writer.







After dinner, Phylicia and her two sisters cleared the table. It was her turn to wash, one sister rinsed, the other dried, and momma put them away.
“Are y’all excited for school tomorrow,” momma asked no one in particular.
“Yeah,” they all chimed in nonchalantly.
“Just know it’s going to be different,” she said.

Different? Being almost nine years old about to enter into the fourth grade, Phylicia did not really understand what her mother meant, but it did not sound good. She had always made good grades at her old school. The day she and her sisters were told they should not come back there because the school district was losing its accreditation (whatever that meant) she cried.
“They may not like you,” momma continued, “but you’re there to learn.”
The thought of not being liked pierced through her mind like a sharp knife. Her family was loved. ‘The Hodges Girls,’ is what everyone would call them.
“Do your best, keep your head down, and don’t speak unless you are spoken to,” momma put the cup in the cabinet.
This was the traditional lecture when going to church, the store, or when her mother had an important meeting. They got it.

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