Oh, how I dreaded 7th period my freshman year. By the time 1:25 in the afternoon rolled around, it felt like I was being sentenced to my own death. It wasn’t that Algebra II was the bane of my existence, because I’m not even all that lousy at math. It was my cold-hearted, mean, grouchy, short-tempered, overall horrible man I had for a teacher. I don’t know what was worse: his indescribably bad breath, or his almost hilariously unclear teaching method. By the time 2:15 finally arrived, my brain was scrambled and inexpressibly baffled by whatever lesson he had poorly taught us for the day. He was almost as dreadful as Ms. Trunchbull from Roald Dahl’s Matilda. This went on for nine months, four times a week, for forty-five agonizing minutes every day.
The end of the period was just as much a flood of relief as it was a blow at my self-esteem, as I trudged out of that classroom tremendously confused as well as angry with myself. Why don’t I just get it? I would think to myself. Am I just stupid? Continue reading