Elizabeth Tankersley

  • Winner of the Humor National Gold Award and the Humor Gold Key Award
  • Biography:
    • School: Ockerman Middle School
    • Grade: 8
    • Age: 13
    • Hometown: Burlington
    • Parents: Howard L. and Sarah Tankersley
    • Clubs/hobbies: Web design, drawing, reading, Quick Recall, Girl Scouts, Northern Kentucky Children's Ensemble
  • Writing Sample(s):

Me and My Sporks
By Elizabeth Tankersley

"Think of something that inspires you." Mrs. White, the teacher in charge of Poetry Club, waited a minute for everyone to think. "Good. This is what you will write your first poem about. Would anyone like to share what they have chosen?"

I raised my hand.

"Yes?"

"Sporks inspire me, Mrs. White. May I write my poem on sporks?"

The crowded classroom roared with laughter.

Mrs. White looked at me. "That depends," she said, "What in heaven's name is a spork?"

I smiled and stood up. I already had a description ready for the occasion. "What do you mean, you don't know what a spork is?" I demanded. "The dictionary defines 'spork' as -- Well, the dictionary doesn't usually define 'spork'. A spork is a kind of silverware. Plasticware, usually. It's a cross between a spoon and a fork. It's round and shiny, like a spoon, but at the top of the spoon, there are two notches cut into it, to make it sharp and forklike. They inspire me, with their perfect round shape, their wonderful uniqueness, their unity of spoon and fork. It's like it symbolizes something, but it is not my place to know what -- "

The laughter grew suddenly deafening. I sat down. Mrs. White waited for everyone to settle down, then said, in a stern voice, "No, Bethany, you may not write your poem on 'sporks'. I was looking for a more serious topic."

What does she mean, more serious?! Sporks really do inspire me! Giggling continued around me as I sank deeper into my chair. What am I doing here, anyway? I asked myself. Then I remembered.

It had started a few weeks ago, when my mom had said she wanted to talk to me. I sat down on a chair in the living room and she sat on the couch. "What is it?" I asked her. I could tell by the way she was acting that it was either something important or something she thought was important. Not necessarily the same thing.

"Well, it's just that, well, over the past couple years, you seem to have gained a little weight," she said.

I sighed. "And? Girls my age are supposed to gain weight. What's your point?"

"I was thinking maybe you could join an after-school activity to help get fit. A sports team or something."

I had smiled and thought about all the after-school activities my school had available, conveniently forgetting the basketball team, the cheerleading squad, and any other athletic clubs I could think of. This left a few small, lesser-known clubs. "Poetry Club," I told her. She looked at me like she had asked me to cook dinner and I had given her a sugar pellet.

I was brought back to the present by a tap on the shoulder. It was my friend Joanna, who had also joined the club. "Beth? Yo! Beth! Spork girl! Wake up! The meeting just ended. Let's walk home together."

"Okay." I grabbed my bag and walked into the hall to meet her. We slowly began to walk.

"If I don't write about sporks, what should I write about?" I complained.

"You could write about something in your life," suggested Joanna. Joanna always has a perky suggestion.

"Sporks are in my life, Joanna." I was beginning to get exasperated with people not understanding my liking of sporks.

"Oh -- Well, how about a person in your life? I'm writing about my granddad. You can write about your mom or someone."

"You're not helping."

"I'm trying to!"

"Well, you're not." I stopped the conversation here. We walked all the way to my house without saying anything. When we got there, Joanna called, "bye!" I said goodbye and headed up to my room, where I continued trying to write a poem about something other than sporks. I came up with a few limericks about fictional people committing homicide, but that doesn't inspire me at all. It had to be something real, something in my life that inspires me. Something besides sporks! "Arrrgh! This is pointless!" I cried.

I showed up at Poetry Club the next week without a poem. Mrs. White tried to help me, but I could tell it wouldn't work.

"Now, what do you like to write about?"

"I already told you, sporks."

"All right then. Let's try a different approach." Mrs. White seemed determined to have me write. "I'll tell you something to write about, and you write it. Popcorn."

I tried- I seriously did- and after a few minutes I had a pretty good poem about popcorn. She asked me to read it to her.

Popcorn Poem

By Bethany Coderaven

"Popcorn is a snack, a snack you can eat.

You can buy it in a pack; you can buy it on the street.

In near and far lands, popcorn tastes better than pork.

You can eat it with your hands, you can eat it with a spork -- "

I stopped. How had the word "spork" gotten in there? I guess it was some kind of "spork withdrawal". Normally I can use sporks any way I want, but here it was looked upon badly. I was so used to writing about what I love that I did it unintentionally.

"Let's try again, without the sporks, shall we? Music."

I wrote many of this sort of poem. Short, stupid, and involving the word 'spork'. After about ten of these, Mrs. White got scary. "Look here!" she whispered, inches away from my face. She sounded calm, but you could tell by her eyes that behind this eerie coolness she was at the end of her rope, and if she got any farther on this figurative rope, she would fall into a boiling sea of lava. "Look here," she said again. "If I hear the word 'spork' one more time, I'll be Very. Very. Angry. And, when you come back next week, you'd better have a poem about something other than sporks, or I'll kick you out of the club."

When I got home, I went up to the desk in my room and began trying to write a poem. Every one had sporks in it. I had never known I liked sporks so much, but they say you never know how much you'll miss something until it's gone. I missed spork poetry. I missed it very much. I continued trying to write something, but I didn't know what inspired me besides sporks.

Then an idea struck me. Bang! I didn't have to be in Poetry Club. I knew just the way to get out- and be able to write freely about sporks. I grabbed a pencil and began to write.

When I got to the Poetry Club the next week, Mrs. White asked me to read my poem in front of the class. I had a poem. Not a non-spork poem, but a poem. I cleared my throat and read:

Spork Poem

By Bethany Coderaven

"People don't understand the majesty that is the spork

Some say it's a spoon, and others say it's a fork

But it is a spork, and it's true without doubt

That it is the spork I cannot live without. I quit."

I quickly fished a camera out of my pocket and snapped a picture of the expression on Mrs. White's face. (just for the heck of it.) I then picked up my bag and walked out of the room. I can join another club, I thought. And, as if on cue, a poster on the door of Mr. Pachinko's science room caught my eye. Robotics Team. Come after school on Thursday for details. But it was not the words that caught my eye- it was the picture. A large humanoid robot constructed of Legos filled the majority of the poster. It had treads on its feet and a motion sensor where the face would be. Its arms were long, with complicated mechanics all through them. In place of the hands were two sporks.

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