In Which My Mother Is Insulted and I Say Hi To My First Grade Teacher
I had two cancelled classes today, which was lovely. My school day ended at 9.30, and I decided to go to the library to pick up a couple of books.
Afterwards, on the bus stop, there is a bunch of kids. This is the downside to taking the bus in the middle of the day; you get stuck with all the children on field trips, and I rather dislike children in large groups. They are noisy and run around a lot.
Suddenly, I spot a familiar face. I can't quite place it, though. Their teacher is a woman in her fifties with glasses, messy brown hair, and orthopaedic shoes. After a bit of creepy staring, I realise she used to be my teacher, too. I approach her and ask if they're from Buttcrack School. Yeah, they are. "Because, and I know this may be weird, but I think you might have been my kindergarten teacher."
She told me she didn't teach kindergarten. I stared for a bit. I was certain she'd been my teacher at Buttcrack School, where I went until second grade.
"But wait," she said, "what's your name?"
I told her my name. "Oh, are you Russian?" I told her I were. Suddenly, her eyes lit up with the deranged flame of recognition. She grabbed my elbow. I fought the urge to recoil; I don't like being touched by people I don't know very well. She said something about how I'd changed and how I didn't look like myself at all. I maintained that I probably hadn't looked very me-like back then, but had now taken on a form I was comfortable with. We exchanged more niceties, and it was dawning on me that she was Not Very Smart. Which is cool. I mean, people are allowed be Not Very Smart. It's just funny, because I used to look up to this woman when I was seven years old. Coincidentally, that's exactly a decade ago. My, does time fly, etc.
She asked where I went to school now, and I babbled a bit about my current school and how I enjoy it much more than the school I used to go to and how great learning is.
"Yeah, your mother never liked Buttcrack School much, did she?"
Record needle scratch.
Seriously? You still remember how my parents -- or rather, my mother, considering that you later continued to ask me whether she was still married to the same man and "he's not [my] real father, right?" -- were dissatisfied? And you are asking me this? I was seven! I know absolutely nothing about the back story of me changing schools.
I shrugged, half-smiled politely and said something about generally not being a compulsory school-person.
"Ah, yes. You were, you were ... different"
"Hm."
"It was clear that your mother wanted you to go somewhere."
Oho. I was just a poor kid being pushed to read and write and be curious. My life, it is tragic and difficult. If only I didn't have such an oppressive mother.
Maybe I'm overreacting, I'm just surprised that it took a teacher all of three minutes to insult my mother, my intelligence, the way my family works, and to remind me why I a) intensely disliked school and b) should never initiate small-talk.
Afterwards, on the bus stop, there is a bunch of kids. This is the downside to taking the bus in the middle of the day; you get stuck with all the children on field trips, and I rather dislike children in large groups. They are noisy and run around a lot.
Suddenly, I spot a familiar face. I can't quite place it, though. Their teacher is a woman in her fifties with glasses, messy brown hair, and orthopaedic shoes. After a bit of creepy staring, I realise she used to be my teacher, too. I approach her and ask if they're from Buttcrack School. Yeah, they are. "Because, and I know this may be weird, but I think you might have been my kindergarten teacher."
She told me she didn't teach kindergarten. I stared for a bit. I was certain she'd been my teacher at Buttcrack School, where I went until second grade.
"But wait," she said, "what's your name?"
I told her my name. "Oh, are you Russian?" I told her I were. Suddenly, her eyes lit up with the deranged flame of recognition. She grabbed my elbow. I fought the urge to recoil; I don't like being touched by people I don't know very well. She said something about how I'd changed and how I didn't look like myself at all. I maintained that I probably hadn't looked very me-like back then, but had now taken on a form I was comfortable with. We exchanged more niceties, and it was dawning on me that she was Not Very Smart. Which is cool. I mean, people are allowed be Not Very Smart. It's just funny, because I used to look up to this woman when I was seven years old. Coincidentally, that's exactly a decade ago. My, does time fly, etc.
She asked where I went to school now, and I babbled a bit about my current school and how I enjoy it much more than the school I used to go to and how great learning is.
"Yeah, your mother never liked Buttcrack School much, did she?"
Record needle scratch.
Seriously? You still remember how my parents -- or rather, my mother, considering that you later continued to ask me whether she was still married to the same man and "he's not [my] real father, right?" -- were dissatisfied? And you are asking me this? I was seven! I know absolutely nothing about the back story of me changing schools.
I shrugged, half-smiled politely and said something about generally not being a compulsory school-person.
"Ah, yes. You were, you were ... different"
"Hm."
"It was clear that your mother wanted you to go somewhere."
Oho. I was just a poor kid being pushed to read and write and be curious. My life, it is tragic and difficult. If only I didn't have such an oppressive mother.
Maybe I'm overreacting, I'm just surprised that it took a teacher all of three minutes to insult my mother, my intelligence, the way my family works, and to remind me why I a) intensely disliked school and b) should never initiate small-talk.