Writing the Self Two: The Cask of Confusion

The bell echos through the school, saying that recess time is over. I head to my locker and fight through the mess to grab my ELA binder and a pencil. Arriving in the classroom, I sit at my assigned desk, between all the rowdy boys. I’m pretty sure I have to sit here to keep them all on track and help them finish their assignments, but I don’t mind. The draft from the window beside me sends a chill my way, and I pull the sleeves of my hoodie down over my hands. The teacher hurries in late as usual, and I wait for instruction about what we are going to do today. She passes out story booklets still warm from printing. The teacher instructs the class to read the story on our own. The title page looks like a dark blob, messy from years of photocopying. I begin to read the story, and even the title confused me; The Cask of Amontillado.

I knew the story would be challenging, being written by Edger Allen Poe, but I did not expect to struggle with it so much. Half of the words seem not to make sense. Fetter, preclude, impunity, accost; I get so fed up that I stop reading for a second and look around the room. The walls are filled with students’ work, posters of what it means to be Canadian hang on the bulletin board. Colours of red are consistent throughout all the posters. There are pictures of hockey sticks, maple leaves, and snowmobiles. I try to focus on the stories once again but find my thoughts elsewhere. I read a page, and by the end of it, I have no idea what it has said. I look up again, checking the time on the clock at the front of the classroom. I pray for time to tick by faster so I can go home. My classmates all share varying looks of confusion and frustration on their faces.

I go back to reading page 9 for the third time, hoping to understand what is going on. I push on and get to page 12 before I decide to call it quits. It is almost lunch, and I start to get my things packed up so I can leave as soon as the bell rings. I look around at my classmates, and most are not reading anymore. I wonder if they have finished reading it, or if they have given up like me. I wonder how much my friend, whose second language is English, is struggling with this story. He usually has trouble with the stories we read, and I can’t imagine how hard he must be working on trying to understand this one. I wonder if the teacher thought of that when she assigned it. Almost every person in the school looks and talks like me. Every teacher understands my language, culture, and for the most part, what it is like to be me. My school and this assignment are set up to my advantage, even if I am struggling with it too.