In the 11th grade my English teacher gave me a pen. The pen was smooth and elegant with a digital clock on the end of it. He told me that he saw potential in my writing. I was struggling with school at the time, and I was fading fast from an education. Potential? Potential in what? So, I took the pen and began to write. I wrote short stories, sad stories, stories of grief and depression, and stories of nostalgia. I thought that pen gave me the strength and power to write. I held on to that pen with my life because I thought that was where my writing power came from. One day I reached into my pocket to write with the pen and I couldn't believe it, but I lost the pen! How could I explain this to my teacher? How could I write again? I moped to class that day and explained to him what happend. I told him that I lost the prized pen that he gave me. I told him how that pen gave me the power and skill to write! He looked at me with a puzzled look. He reached in his drawer and gave me a regular Bic pen. He said, ''The pen didn't give you power but you had that skill and power all along.'' A ghetto boy like me has that power? A nappy headed boy like me? He smiled and told me to have a seat. I lost many pens after that. I also wrote many poems and stories after that. It wasn't the slick, sleek, amazing pen that gave me the power to write. It wasn't even my writing skills that gave me the power to write. It was the simple belief that my 11th grade English teacher had in me. 

        Thanks for believing in me, Teach.