31 Days, 31 Memories - Day 23
My sister suggested a non-elementary-school era memory, so:
23. High School
Our ninth grade English teacher, P. (the one I was apparently rumored to have been sleeping with) was big on classroom participation. During our Romeo and Juliet unit, we each memorized and recited a passage, made a video or presented a live skit in a group, and made masks in class for a mock costume ball like the Capulets held. P. also cast and directed us in a few "live" in-class performances of key scenes in the play. I usually scrunched down in my seat and/or avoided eye contact when he chose the day's victims, and it almost always worked. (I had a good relationship with P. and he respected my intense shyness to a point. For most of the year I was doled out small bit parts or was allowed to remain an audience member, and he mostly called on me to read lines that other students weren't understanding.)
Then came the balcony scene.
I don't remember how P. did it, exactly; the trauma of the moment has overshadowed the details. Maybe he assigned Juliet to me right away, or maybe he asked for volunteers as usual and chose me anyway. However it happened, it was clear that he'd intended me to have the part. As if that weren't enough, he then assigned Romeo to A.N. (we always referred to him by his full name), an incredibly annoying boy in class who could be so obtuse sometimes it was embarrassing to watch. P. used to argue with this kid for 10 minutes running just for the amusement value. And then to top it all off, instead of letting the two of us die in peace in our seats, P. made me get up, walk to the back of the classroom and sit on top of the counter while A.N. knelt on the floor in the middle of the room.
I stared resolutely at the page, I remember that, face brighter red than usual as we voiced our declarations of love and lines about the moon being "sick and pale with grief that thou her maid art far more fair than she," as I endured P.'s amused instructions to read with more passion, and wondered how I would face anyone ever again. We got through it, though. And I didn't resent P. for what he did, really, despite my outward protestations. Because I adored him, and underneath the terror and mortification, I was secretly glad he'd chosen me.
23. High School
Our ninth grade English teacher, P. (the one I was apparently rumored to have been sleeping with) was big on classroom participation. During our Romeo and Juliet unit, we each memorized and recited a passage, made a video or presented a live skit in a group, and made masks in class for a mock costume ball like the Capulets held. P. also cast and directed us in a few "live" in-class performances of key scenes in the play. I usually scrunched down in my seat and/or avoided eye contact when he chose the day's victims, and it almost always worked. (I had a good relationship with P. and he respected my intense shyness to a point. For most of the year I was doled out small bit parts or was allowed to remain an audience member, and he mostly called on me to read lines that other students weren't understanding.)
Then came the balcony scene.
I don't remember how P. did it, exactly; the trauma of the moment has overshadowed the details. Maybe he assigned Juliet to me right away, or maybe he asked for volunteers as usual and chose me anyway. However it happened, it was clear that he'd intended me to have the part. As if that weren't enough, he then assigned Romeo to A.N. (we always referred to him by his full name), an incredibly annoying boy in class who could be so obtuse sometimes it was embarrassing to watch. P. used to argue with this kid for 10 minutes running just for the amusement value. And then to top it all off, instead of letting the two of us die in peace in our seats, P. made me get up, walk to the back of the classroom and sit on top of the counter while A.N. knelt on the floor in the middle of the room.
I stared resolutely at the page, I remember that, face brighter red than usual as we voiced our declarations of love and lines about the moon being "sick and pale with grief that thou her maid art far more fair than she," as I endured P.'s amused instructions to read with more passion, and wondered how I would face anyone ever again. We got through it, though. And I didn't resent P. for what he did, really, despite my outward protestations. Because I adored him, and underneath the terror and mortification, I was secretly glad he'd chosen me.