All About Me – Part (1)

Inspired by some blogging friends, I have decided to share some of my childhood and adolescent memories.

I was in middle school.  After finishing science class, we left the lab and settled into our classroom, waiting for our French teacher to arrive. An assistant teacher came in and informed us that our teacher would be about 15 minutes late. We all got excited; a late teacher meant we could have some fun. Nobody really paid attention to the assistant teacher, she was young and quite petite, almost resembling one of us students. Despite her role, her presence felt more like that of a peer rather than an authoritative figure. As we exchanged glances and stifled giggles, our eagerness for a little fun began to bubble over.

One by one, the students began excusing themselves, asking her if they could leave or pretending they needed to go to the bathroom. I looked around the classroom, and it was just me and a few other students sitting quietly. I felt the urge to be adventurous and join the others as they headed down the hallway to play. I could hear them walking in the hallway; some went to the library, while the rest sat down on the floor to chat.

I asked her if I could go to the bathroom, and then I left the classroom. As I walked down the hallway, I noticed a few boys looking down the stairs and laughing. Curiosity got the better of me, so I asked them, “What are you laughing at?”

One of the boys, whom I had dubbed the naughty boy at the time, looked at me mischievously and replied, “None of your business.” However, I was the type who never gave up easily. I approached them, glanced down the stairs, then looked back at them and asked again, “What are you doing?”

They knew I wasn’t going to leave without getting an answer, so one of the boys said, “Spit down the stairs to see who can spit the farthest.”

I looked at them and asked, “This seems like so much fun! Can I join? I bet I can spit farther than any of you.”

The mischievous boy replied, “Oh yeah? Show me then.” I spat, and then he spat, followed by the other boys who joined in, turning it into a competition. We were having fun, but suddenly, I spat just as our teacher was coming up the stairs, and my spit ended up hitting him on his shoulder. 

We froze and looked at each other, and before he could look up the stairs, we all ran to the classroom. We sat and pretended to read our books. Like an angel, I looked very focused on the book.

He entered the classroom and placed his hands on his hips, surveying all of us. When I looked at him, I was so ashamed and scared at the same time.

I sat at the front table. So he looked at me and asked me to get up to the board. He gave me a piece of chalk and said, “Write ‘imbecile.”

My hands were shaking as I wrote the word imbecile, waiting for my punishment.

The teacher surveyed the room, fixing his gaze on the bewildered students. With a stern expression, he demanded, “Someone was spitting outside, down the stairs. I need to know right now—who spat on me? Who was disrespectful enough to spit down the stairs?” His voice echoed slightly in the silence, emphasizing the gravity of the situation.

The naughty boy and the other boys looked at me while I stood next to the board, squeezing the chalk in my hand. Next to me, the word I had written was “Imbecile.” The naughty boy seemed about to say something, so I glanced at him and shot him a stern look. Though I didn’t speak, I silently thought, “Don’t even think about it.”

The silence lingered, but no one spoke. We all lost 5 points from our next exam. The boys despised me, and I felt the same toward them.

Good memories! I wish I can go back in time to that 12 years old girl, and do it all over again. Then look at my teacher and tell him the truth. Just honest and clear.

Put all your cards on the table, little girl.