Personal Narrative by Aram Winter
I sat there sweating like a sinner in a church under the glare of his beady eyes. My teacher broke the news monotonously, but his considerable lack of intonation only made my heart sink faster. He clearly didn’t seem the slightest bit surprised that I hadn’t practiced the song for the recital – truth is, at this point in my academic career, all my teachers viewed me as the 8-year-old with a poor work ethic (and honestly, they weren’t wrong). While he said, “You’ll have to sit out on the recital due to your lack of practice,” I heard a proclamation that I was about to become my parents’ biggest disappointment.
When my father picked me up from school he asked how my day was. I gave him the usual “fine,” but my heart was jackhammering; I desperately prayed that we would discuss anything but the recorder. He brought up my class’ upcoming performance on Friday and inquired why I had not mentioned it sooner. He asked me why I was always so forgetful, I answered, “I don’t know;” a black hole in my stomach
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He follows me everywhere I go as an imp on my shoulder. He has lingered in my every movement, act, and thought for years and no matter how hard I try, he is insistent on staying. I am nineteen years old now, I have graduated high school and am inching my way toward successfully finishing up my first year of college. But even now, I swear I still hear the sounds of those recorders playing “Ode to Joy,” and as much as I try to desert this boy he refuses to leave. However, as I get older I realize that maybe this haunting is a good thing. If it was not for this nagging reminder, that reminder of the worst night in my childhood, I can affirmatively say I would not be on the dean’s list in college. I would not be as bold or as daring, putting my heart and soul into what I do. Without that disappointing third grader by my side, I wouldn’t be me. And I finally like being me (but I still hate that damn