I used to sit in English classes to raise my hand and offer unique insights. I trusted that anything I had to say was soaked in wisdom, dressed in metaphor, or threaded with powerful analysis. I molded my English courses to fit the palm of my hand, and continuously fought battles against myself to be the most obscure, most gifted, English-y student I could be. And more often than not, I failed terribly. I wasn’t proud enough to be the best, but I wasn’t humble enough to remain unnoticed.
English Seven taught me that my poetry was a gift, not a skill. English Eight taught me that poetry was...