“I mean, she mocked me. In front of the whole class. All year.”
I took a breath, letting my mind drift back to a classroom I hadn’t thought about in years.
Math had always been my weak subject, but algebra felt impossible.
Mrs. Keller had taught at our school for over a decade—trusted, respected, untouchable. And she had a smile she used like a weapon.
The first time she turned it on me, I thought I’d misunderstood.
I raised my hand to ask her to repeat a step.
She sighed dramatically and said, “Some students need things repeated more than others. And some students… well. They’re just not very bright!”
The class laughed.
I told myself it was a one-time thing.
It wasn’t. Every question after that came with a remark.
“Oh, it’s you again!”
“We’ll have to slow the entire class down.”
“Some people just don’t have a brain for this.”
Sometimes she said it sweetly, like she was being helpful. Other times, with a tired sigh that made it clear I was wasting everyone’s time.
The laughter was the worst part. Not everyone joined in—but enough did to break my confidence.
By winter, I stopped raising my hand. I sat in the back and counted the minutes until the bell rang.
“That went on for months?” Sammy interrupted.
“All year. Until one day, she crossed the line. It was a Tuesday in March…”
I raised my hand for the first time in weeks. Maybe out of habit, maybe out of frustration.
She turned, saw me, and sighed again.
