Beyond Limitations

My name Is Sara Creevan, I am 25 years old. I currently reside in Maine with my husband and two beautiful little boys, ages 3, and 1. I'm a Behavioral Science and CMY studies major and am currently employed as a Behavioral Health Professional working with children with disabilities. From a young age, I was notably empathetic and loved helping people. I was always very sensitive and enjoyed expressing myself artistically. At around the age of 9, I exhibited a deepening interest in drawing and writing. 

Throughout my years in school, I was mainly acknowledged for my performances in sports. I was definitely deemed a jock and had tremendous potential to pursue some sort of athletic career. My future was bright as an emerging sports star, but there was much more to me than that. With the exception of a few and I mean, few, hand picked individuals, not many people knew knew who I really was or what I wanted. To be both poet and athlete, artist and athlete, writer and athlete, or maybe all of the above. I struggled to deal with the stereotypes I felt bound to. In my senior year of High School It became clear what I was meant for. Through an unexpectedly bad experience, came a valuable lesson that has helped guide and direct me.

After my first week in my senior English class, I asked my Professor to review a paper I had written for his first assignment. He was a new transfer from some prestigious University. His reputation intimidated me. Rumor had it that he had failed 3 students on the first day of class, had an IQ of 150, and could spot a cheat a mile away..Maybe that's why he was so sought after, maybe that's why he was here, standing before me. Earlier that week we had learned about our train of thoughts and were asked to submit a journal entry on them- I was exemplifying this perfectly at the moment. I forced my thoughts blank and approached the new teacher. Despite his overwhelmingly busy schedule, he agreed to meet with me after class to go over my paper. "He's not half bad," I thought.

When the bell rang, I watched nervously as all of the students exited the classroom. My eyes fixated on the door until every last one of them had left. Finally. I sat with nervous excitement. I knew I had written one of my best papers period-but would he see this? Oh, he'd see this! 
As he recited specific lines aloud, I thought to myself, "man, I nailed this, he's impressed! I really wanted to set the bar with a brilliant first impression--and it was.

When he had finished reading my paper, or had read enough (to which I'm not sure), he removed his finger from his lip and pressed my paper face down on his desk. I was dying with anticipation as I tried nervously to interpret his expressions. Unprepared for what he'd say next, he stared me in the eye-it must have only been momentarily but it felt like minutes, torturous minutes in which he was attempting to sweat me out, but for what? But then, with no obscurity, he calmly asked, "Sara, where did you get this?" Huh, what? Wow- that certainly wasn't what I had expected. Suddenly a heavy train of thoughts flowed through my head again. My head pounded. Those Rumors, but were they? I sat on the fence as my classmates urged me to pick a side. It was clear where I'd have to fall.

The new English Professor accused me of plagiarizing and stated " this is TOO good to be yours, I don't have College students who write like this." Those were his exact words, and not an example of how time can fabricate our memories. But what did he expect, what did that mean, exactly? 
Professor B proceeded to tell me that I'd better take my paper, include some citations and make sure it was "truly mine", before handing in again. He stated that if I told him where I had copied from, I would only receive a warning and would not be in trouble. 
Was this a joke, some sort of test? I was soft spoken. Why was he provoking me?
I felt like I was on trial for a crime I was wrongly convicted of and he was the judge..my future, delicately balancing in the palm of his hands.

Trouble?! what? Add citations? There's a thought! It would go something like this, "Rushforth, Sara, 2006, journal of her mind., asshole." I thought about including that as my only revision he suggested I make. At that moment, my brother's ill sense of humor stormed over me like a thundercloud. Oddly enough, I resisted the strong temptation.

He thought he was so smart, this newbie Professor with his sideways grin. Not even one week into his new role as the schools head English Professor.. I wondered how many others there had been. How many young hearts or dreams he'd stomped on. The train started in again but I was distracted by his continuous glare.
He continued staring at me as if he was searching or rather, fishing for something. An emotion to reconfirm his suspicions. But they weren't suspicions, not in his mind, not in his voice. No, his accusations were factual with no other considerations in mind. 

I'm not entirely sure which expression my face painted but I wondered if it was indicative of guilt or if he was enthralled by my actual discouragement and heartbreak. Deep down, I was crushed. In fact, I didn't want to write again. I wanted to withdraw from his class and give up. If my own Professor couldn't believe in me, who would?
Served me right, my ulterior motives and falsified sense of hope. Hope that he'd enable me to break free from the leash of stereotypes I was chained by.. hope that he'd enable me to find my identity.
I knew I hadn't done anything wrong and had nothing to hide in regards to his wild accusations, but why was this weighing me, so.. 

In retrospect, what a compliment. How good he must have thought my paper! But did he think so little of me, to feel he knew, without hesitation, what I was or wasn't capable of? What was he basing his suspicions or assumptions on? I had never written anything for his class before.

I took my paper as he had instructed and walked away from his classroom with the intention of never returning. For the next few minutes, I sat alone with my thoughts. His performance up there I must applaud, now it made sense how teachers saw me. I should have accepted that I could never be both. I couldn't be valuable as a student and as an athlete. Not when my older brother was the school's known class clown... you know, the one all students love but teachers hate. Remind me to thank him later.

Maybe they were right about me, too.

No, I couldn't let his words cut into me like that, I was the exception, damnit, I am the exception! 

I had a short window of time before I needed to be home, so I went in search of the Dean of Students. The Dean has taught many of my classes but had coached several of my athletic teams as well. He was well acquainted with my work ethic and determination both in the classroom and on the field. I had this to my benefit. 
I had received many A's from the Dean in class for my "uniquely distinguished and superior" writing style. If anyone knew how I wrote or who I really was, I was confident it was him; he'd be able to tell from the first line of my paper that it was mine if I had established myself as a distinguished writer. I believe he described my style as quirky, captivating and fluent.. Yes, my paper fit perfectly between those margins... 

He read my paper in front of me, but this time I wasn't nervous, perhaps it was because of how his face lit up while reading. When he had finished, he looked to me and said " well, Sara (pause, pause), yea, there's no doubt in my mind that this is yours!." he was completely baffled, that the newbie Professor had said such things.
What a relief! At that particular moment, I was elated that he had been promoted to Dean of Students. A position well warranted! He assured me he would "handle the situation" and insisted in a joking manner, that I go home and prepare for my big game that night. 

Oh, for the last few hours the thoughts of the big game had escaped me. My coach and teammates needed me, though. I tried to re-focus my attention. As I scrambled around my house in search of all of my soccer equipment, my thoughts shifted from the newbie English Professor who had accused me of plagiarism only a few hours earlier. In fact, I didn't have a single thought about him. 

I was able to play that night with but a smile of confidence on my face. I ended up scoring 4 goals with 3 assists to ensure our placement in the playoff bracket. 
Who's showing off now? Maybe, I had some subconscious agenda. He'd probably already been scorned by now, less than one week in his new school. Surely I was taunting him. Come Monday there will be an entirely new set of rumors in circulation. Once again, my peers will pressure me to decide which side of the fence I sit.

Against my whispered words, I returned to his classroom. I worked quietly and dilligently for the next few months. I didn't speak much, but when I did, I made sure he was watching and listening- I became obsessed with making sure he realized just how wrong he had me figured. He wasn't a bad man, but I made sure he was more patient now, in processing his thoughts.

I'll never know what was said in the conversation between my two superiors, but my English Professor was different; not the firm, confident, egomaniacal newbie I remembered. How awkward this must be for him.

By the end of the year, Professor B left a final response in my journal praising my work. He encouraged me to pursue writing and claimed I had "enormous potential." He never formally apologized for his unsettling words, but I knew he had tried, on many accounts. So much that I almost felt it insincere. How ironic that he wanted my approval when I only sought his to begin with
I had given Professor B one welcoming he'd never forget, I was sure of that, but he gave something to me as well. He provided me with a lesson I would always remember.

When I marched the stairs to receive my HS diploma that June, I looked back in the crowd and saw Professor B watching. It almost felt poetic. He smiled at me with a near believable congratulatory nod. As I walked off the stage, our eyes met and I vowed to never let anyone tell me I wasn't good enough to do or be something. I decided only I would judge myself, and only I would be the reason I could or couldn't do something. I would set the only bar for myself, whether too high or too low-that was my right and no one else's.

This lesson has transpired throughout my college years and into my professional career as well. When I encounter clients who feel the way I once felt about myself, I strive to teach them that no one can stop them from becoming whoever they want to be. That they shouldn't let others set or decide their limitations because self belief is a powerful motivator. 

There is something to be learned from every experience in life even if it's disguised as something ugly; if we take the time to recognize the purpose or result that it served, we can find our answers. I am thankful for that lesson, and in retrospect, for Professor B. When I think of him, it is not with a negative connotation, as you might expect. No, in fact, it is merely opposite