I. Author. 005

   Sixth grade in Ecuador was the last step of the elementary ladder. Classes were far more demanding. Homework took longer and exams were tougher. Teachers harped on us about our handwriting and overall presentation with renewed emphasis. Quite annoying, really.
   It also meant longer essays in Composition class.
   I've always wondered how teachers coordinated their lesson plans, for the presence of a certain theme influenced the topics of study, especially between History and Composition, what we know as Creative Writing.
   The topic was war. No battles for independence where a young man took four cannon shots that tore his extremities while he still held the flag with his teeth or anything of the sort, but war from a more modern time.
   The last "war" in Ecuador happened around 1941 but the tensions with Peru became part of the norm more than fifty years later, and I grew up with the idea that my generation would have to go into battle. In fact, in school, we were taught to march like soldiers, and we were encouraged to sing patriotic songs full of references to sacrifice, blood, and patriotism. Early brainwashing? Perhaps.
   

 "I want a three page essay on what it would be like to you to be a soldier defending your nation."
   For many of us kids, our experience with war consisted of John Wayne movies like The Green Berets and The Longest Day. The good guys and bad guys were clearly defined, and the good guys always won. 
   My classmates filled three pages with heroics inspired by the old films.
   In retrospect, none of us wanted to remember the guys who took a bullet in the heart or the ones that were blown sky high with a grenade. We were John Wayne, the hero.
   I thought of the other guys. Not the enemy, but the ones who paid the ultimate price. If I was a soldier, what would it be like for me? It was simple really. I'd be absolutely petrified. 
   About a year ago, I wrote a blog post titled D Day. I made myself think like a soldier and composed in as honest a voice as I could, and that's what I did in sixth grade.
   I filled three pages that took me from paralyzing fear to trepidation, desperate praying, sorrow, and the ultimate sense of resignation. I wrote that I hoped my death would count for something; that I died just so someone else could live, and other sentiments I never really saw in those old films.
   The following day, I turned in four and a half pages. Licensiado Villalba announced the best three papers would go on the wall of honor next to the director's office. Excited about the possibility of honoring our families by getting our papers tacked to the Director's office wall, we all compared notes. No one wrote anything remotely close to what I did. I expected to be one of the winners.
   I wasn't.
   The winners wrote things like I'd kill every Peruvian with my gun and I'd drive the tank right into Lima and blow up the president's house. 
   It was Abdon Calderon* all over again. 
   "Mr. Robayo, I'd like to talk to you about your essay."
   Mr. Villalba kept me in class while everyone else went to recess. 
   "Who wrote this?"

   "I did, Licensiado."
   He shook his head. "No. You did not. Getting your mommy or daddy to do your homework is not what a Borja student does. I will not tolerate cheating of any sort."
   "I wrote my own essay," I insisted.
   "I don't believe you."
   The desperation made me shaky and my speech deteriorated to a stutter as I tried to convince him I did not cheat, but the man turned to stone.
   "Who in your family serves in the military?"
   "Sir?"
   "Listen kid, my father served in the Army and he had the misfortune of getting into a firefight with the Peruvians in Paquilla. This," he shook my papers at me, "is almost the same thing he wrote in his journal. That tells me this is not yours. This was written by a real soldier. Besides, it's too well written for a sixth grader. I'm sorry, but I can't give you a passing mark."
   "Why?"
   "Because I'd be grading the real author and since he doesn't attend this school. Basically, you didn't bring your homework, Mr. Robayo."
   I went numb. "But that's a zero."
   "Precisely."
   With practiced flair, he drew a red oval never taking his eyes off me.
   Instead of bringing my parents into an embarrassing teacher conference, I took the zero and explained to Mom I'd forgotten my homework. Mom grounded me for a whole weekend.
   Nearly thirty years later, the jading injustice forced me to delete the first two drafts of D Day. But in the end, I decided that although writing fiction is about creating characters and situations that take place in the mind of the author, it's important to color the canvas of a story with more than a few truthful brushstrokes. 
   I can't believe that Captain Otero drove a tank into Lima uncontested. I'm sure the Peruvian Army would have a few words to say about that. I can't believe Sargent Palacios killed all three thousand Peruvian troops never once reloading his pistol.
    But the image of a scared Private Robayo, praying like he's never prayed in his life, terrified of taking someone else's life or losing his own in the name of God and country, yet determined to make it home in one piece, while resigned to the risk of dying on the battlefield still gives me chills, because it's realistically human. 
   My essay did not make the wall of honor, but it wasn't that it was poorly written. Quite the contrary. 
   I imagine to this day, Mr. Villalba is convinced a soldier in my family wrote my essay for me, and that as an educator, he helped shaping me into the person I am today through that zero, but it was the best zero I ever got.
   

to be continued...

   
if you'd like to take a peek at D Day, here's the link:
http://outofthemindofjavierrobayo.blogspot.com/2012/06/d-day.html
   
* Abdon Calderon is an Ecuadorian boy hero of the Independence Wars, and provided the premise for I. Author. 003