I Think I Can, I Think I Can, I think I Can

By Marsh Cassady

I was looking through some of my old writing on writing and came across a piece that I’ve thought of time and again over the years. All of us, I’m sure, have had at least one or two bad teachers. The piece I found is about one that I had.
In the early to mid-eighties I was coordinator of writing workshops at a bookstore for writers in San Diego. My partner Jim was manager. The store also published a journal about writing. This is where the following first appeared.

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Miss Schiffauer! The name conjures up visions of floating fabric, whipped jello, weightlessness. Well, the reality was anything but....
Actually, I suppose when it comes right down to it, I owe the woman a debt of gratitude. She was my tenth grade English teacher. And English was always my best subject. She was far from my best teacher.
Once I gave an oral book report on Kenneth Roberts’ Northwest Passage. I’d enjoyed the book tremendously. Then she stated to ask me questions about it that didn’t make any sense. It turned out that she was confusing this book with another.
A mistake anyone could make? Sure, but she didn’t want to admit it, especially in front of the class. She was so darned cocky about everything. Like the time she sent a girl home because she said she was wearing inappropriate clothing. It was a blouse Miss Schiffauer thought was too sheer. Fine. Trouble is the girl, who had run out of the room in tears, never came back. That’s the kind of teacher Miss Schiffauer was. A great influence.
In her classes I never received above a ninety-two percent. Okay, that’s not bad. But why was it that with no more effort, I never received lower than a ninety-two in my other three years of high school English?
I wanted to work on the school paper. Miss Schiffauer was the advisor. “No,” she told me. “You can’t. You’re not good enough.” But my friend worked for the paper, on the sports desk. He never earned above a “C” in English nor in much of anything else, except band. We both played trumpets.
I was hurt...and disappointed at Miss Schiffauer’s edict. But I wouldn’t give up. I majored in English in college and worked on the newspaper and the yearbook. How do you like that, Miss Schiffauer? I was also elected to my school’s creative writing honorary. How about you?
After graduation from college I took a job on a real paper. I wrote a weekly column and feature stories, as well as news. I interviewed people like Barry Goldwater and Gov. Rhodes of Ohio and the actor Edward Everett Horton. Did you ever do anything like that, Miss Schiffauer?
I went to graduate school in theatre and stopped writing for awhile. Then I wrote a couple of plays and a couple of theatre textbooks. Did you ever do that, Miss Schiffauer? Write plays or textbooks?
I wrote poetry, too, and had some of it published. In fact, I’ll have a book of poetry out next year. Did you ever do that, Miss Schiffauer? Ah, well.
I wrote a syndicated radio show and a local radio show on Ohio history. Did you do anything similar? How about educational films? Did you write those? Or fiction? I did. I’ve had short fiction published. And articles–a lot of them. I was co-editor of a regional magazine. Did you ever to anything like that, Miss Schiffauer? Or were you too busy trying to discourage potential writers? Think I’m bitter? You’re damned right I am. Thirty-odd years later, I’m bitter.
Let me ask you something else, Miss Schiffauer. Have you ever written a biography? I have; it too will be out next year. And I’ve written magazine columns and books on playwriting and acting and drama and theatre. How about you? Or did you just perch at your desk like a bird of prey wondering who to peck at next?
You know what, Miss Schiffauer? I never sell anything but I think of you. Right now I’m writing a couple of novels and a book on creativity and co-authoring a book on reincarnation. And I think of you. Even more often, probably, than I do of Dr. Robert Price, my college English prof to whom my wife and I dedicated our first book back in 1975. He was helpful; he gave me a lot of encouragement. Even saw something in me I didn’t see myself. Something that took time to develop. Something he nurtured through all the courses I took from him. And I took as many as I could, both in literature and creative writing.
But you, Miss Schiffauer? What did you ever do? From my viewpoint, it seems to be not much. A pretty pitiable life. But there is something I want to say to you. A long-delayed message. It’s just one word. And that word is “thanks.” Yes, thanks. Because every time I write something I think: I’ll show that old.... And I rubbed it in, at least in my mind. On every sale. On every poem or article or book or story. Every time I saw my name in print. It was my name, damn it! And I proved you wrong. I can write, and I do write.
I guess I owe you a hell of a debt.

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Back in 1985 after this column was first published, I received a note from a columnist at Writers Digest. He said he empathized with my piece because the same sort of thing happened to him. It’s interesting for me to think that for the first five decades or so of my life, I was the type of person who always quit if I knew I couldn’t do well at something, if I couldn’t be the best at it. Writing was the exception!.