Saturday, July 6, 2013

Day 159: The Teacher

Should be Day 187.  I was having troubles logging into my blogger, and I finally fixed it today.  I have several posts saved that have been working on this week, including a special one I was going to upload for Independence Day.  Oh well, at least I can post again.

The Prompt: Write about a teacher who made you feel stupid in front of the class.  Now write a short story about the incident, but use fictional characters and a 1930’s scene. 

I wasn’t in school long enough for this to happen to me, but I can write something similar to this.

I slunk into my desk when Mrs. Johnson’s back was turned.  I hoped my stomach growling didn’t alert her that I was there.  I set my books that I had borrowed from the school down on my desk, along with the only pencil I owned and my notebook.  My mother had saved up two weeks to buy me that notebook.  I only used it to write down the most important things, and when I did write in it, I used every available space.

Mrs. Johnson turned around to face the class again.  "Does everyone see now how to diagram the direct object?"  Her face contorted into a grimace when she saw me but said nothing.

I sat up in my desk as straight as I could.  

"For homework, I want you all to diagram the five sentences that are on page 76 in your book.  I won't accept any late papers.  The test is on Friday, and you need to be able to know how to do this beforehand.  Now, let's turn our attention to the board and practice our handwriting."

As Mrs. Johnson wrote out the letters and words on the board we needed to copy down, I watched her every hand movement, wishing that this was all I needed to do to master handwriting.  I thought it was a stupid part of class anyways.  I knew how to read and write.  Nobody ever wanted it to look perfect too, except Mrs. Johnson.

"Brianna, why don't you come up to the board and demonstrate to the class how to write 'preparation.'  Since you've been sitting at your desk for so long, it would give your legs a nice stretch and allow the class to see how your 'p's have improved."

I couldn't move my legs at first, let alone stretch them.  Mrs. Johnson knew I had horrible penmanship.  Why didn't she call on someone else?  Of course my "p"s still looked as awful as ever.  I rose as slow as a sloth and shuffled to the board, taking up the white stub of chalk in my shaking hand.  I formed the letters as best I could, wiping away mistakes often.

"You call that handwriting?!  That is the sloppiest work I've seen from you yet.  Did I or did I not tell you to practice writing your letters?"

"You did, ma'am," I responded meekly.

The class giggled a little.

"Have you?"  

"No, ma'am, I have not."

I'm not sure if my classmates laughed from my defiance, the expression on Mrs. Johnson's face, or the fact that my legs were quivering so much that socks were falling down.  They had long lost their elasticity.

"And why not, Brianna?"

I'm not sure if I'd ever heard her madder.  "Because, Mrs. Johnson, I don't have enough paper to practice on."

"I see a perfectly good notebook sitting on your desk."

"I can't use it, at least not for handwriting."

Mrs. Johnson was sure to pass out at any moment.  "Why on earth not?  Notebooks are meant for school."

I held my tongue as long as I could.  I didn't want to share more than I had to, especially with the whole school eagerly eying me.

"Speak up!  I won't be waiting for an answer all day."

"I only use my notebook for writing down math problems and notes from class.  I won't be able to buy another until next year," I added in a softer tone.  My secret was out.  I was poor, and my friends knew it now.

Mrs. Johnson colored and simply commanded, "Take your seat."

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