Who the Hell Do I Think I Am?

I once heard a sharp-witted commentator on NPR define an expert as “someone who knows slightly more about a subject than you.”

I’d like to refine that dead-on assessment to add “but they get a lot more jazzed about it.”

What subject gets my knickers in a twist?

The English language.

Its use and abuse. Its refinement and profanity. Its rhyme and reason. Its rules and misdeeds. How it swings when you hit the right notes and falls on deaf ears when you don’t.

By now you’re probably thinking, “So how are you ‘slightly’ more expert in the English language than yours truly?” In other words, “Who the hell do I think I am?”

I could bore you with my resume and portfolio*. Or, I could give you the hard-won appraisal of a hard-nosed professional, Sister Helen.

When I was in the seventh grade, there was a school-wide essay contest with the theme, "What Christmas Means to Me." The winner would receive a certificate and have their handiwork read over the PA system.

It was a pretty pedestrian assignment, but Sister Helen was built like an army tank and had an eraser-throwing arm that could have landed her in the bullpen at Yankee Stadium. If one of her students could ace this thing and give her bragging rights around the convent, they'd have it made for the rest of the school year.

I gave it my best shot and handed in my paper. The next day, Sister Helen summoned me to her desk. With forty sets of eyes riveted on my back, I made my knee-knocking way to the front of the classroom, where Sister H. started strenuously quizzing me about the origins of my essay. Had I really written it on my own? With no help from my parents? Sisters? Brothers? I answered truthfully to all queries and must have finally convinced her because her next words were, "Gloria, you are a very good writer."

As the saying goes, "Praise from Caesar is praise, indeed." Since that life-defining day, writing is how I've earned my coin and, I hope, entertained my readers. Whether it's creating advertising for a variety of clients or writing an e-mail to family, friends and the occassional jackass politician, I am, and always will be, a fairly happy ink-stained wretch. However, when I see the obscene piles of money being pulled down by those Wall Street boys, I start to think I should have paid more attention in Sister Ann’s math class.

By the way, I won the essay contest and still have the certificate to prove it.

*www.creativehotlist.com/gbrady2

You didn’t think I’d let slip the chance for a little self-promotion, did you?