literature

Algebra Teacher

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My algebra teacher was a young, quirky woman. Her platinum blonde hair reached just past her shoulders to the middle of her back, her skin virtually clear of any blemish. Her thick-framed glasses were always crooked just a tiny bit, and I remember having to fight back the urge to get up and fix them, bend them back into their correct appearance. She was thin and had long, hairless legs which ended in heels, making her look even taller than she appeared; a lithe, slender form and a subtle curve of a jawline. Her slim lips, always quirked up into a wide grin that revealed white teeth, shined with lip gloss or lipstick. It depended on the day.

She always wore fitting dresses and sometimes too-short skirts based on the school dress code, which some of the boys liked. I was one of the boys who didn’t care about it or ogle at her when she walked by. At first I found her cute, but when she showed her personality, her attractiveness melted away and I ended up not being too fond of her.

Always caring more for the male students and praising the Asian kids for the skills in math, her name was Ms. Wilson.

Being one of the kids that was struggling in math for years on end, she always made remarks on how I could do better in the beginning of the year. Handing back my failed test, she would shake her head and click her tongue.

“You make me sad, _____.” Ms. Wilson would coo, as if she was speaking to a mere toddler. With a glance to the failing grade printed in red pen on the top of my test with a small frowny face next to it, I would place it face down on my desk or stuff it in the back of a notebook to be forgotten. Even if she did give out sheets to correct answers and gain back points, I would stuff that in the back of my notebook along with my failed test and try to take my mind off of how much of a failure I was.

Near the end of 8th grade, she didn’t even make passing remarks or comments when she handed back my work. I would hear the click of her heels passing me by, the almost inaudible sound of paper resting on marble, and that failing grade would be staring me in the face as it always did every time she handed back something.

In the end, she didn’t give a shit about my terrible grades.

Ms. Wilson talked too fast, taught to fast, and was overall rushing through things. She would change her hair at least five times a class period, toying with her blonde locks and making small braids, pulling it up into a high ponytail or a messy bun only to take it out again and let it fall over her shoulders. So, so changeable that woman was. One moment making a passing comment at how the weather was beautiful and how good her students are doing to scolding us for not working fast enough, not getting enough work done. Some called her bipolar. I didn’t believe she was, and I still don’t believe she is. I haven’t seen her in months, the last time being at a local Dunkin Donuts. She passed by a table me and my friends were lounging at while getting into line, and we avoided her line of sight like the plague.

She spoke about students behind their backs to other students, dissing them on their acting skills. Laughing about how they dyed their hair or dressed a certain way. I was one of those students, with my ever changing hair color and punk style; becoming a mere joke, a piece of gossip to this teenage-like teacher.

She joked about a kid that was isolated by everyone in front of the whole class he was in, the whole class laughing along with her and only egging her on. She made passing racist comments about Asians being the best at math. Ms. Wilson catered to the male students much more, treating the female students much differently. I don’t remember exactly how she did, but it was like she was aware that a majority of the male students found her attractive.

Only if you were absolutely amazing at math would she give a shit about you.

If I were to ever see her again, she wouldn’t recognize me. My birth name abandoned and my original appearance warped into one that matched the way my mind saw myself; facial hair beginning to sprout on my features and curves vanished from my figure.

And I’m completely fine with not seeing her irritating face or hearing her baby-talking to teenagers again. I would rather it be that way.
I got bored, so I flipped to a random page of a prompt book I have (called "642 Things to Write About" by the San Francisco Writers' Grotto) and placed my finger on a random prompt. I ended up with "your algebra teacher." So I wrote about my 8th grade algebra teacher that I disliked. Names changed.
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