Being Horrid

Jack started a new term today, which included starting a couple of new classes. He traded science for social studies and PE for Spanish. I happened to meet his Spanish teacher in the hallway this morning, and I flashed back to my 7th grade Spanish class.

Every once in a while I am horrid without really understanding why. I did something horrid to my 7th grade Spanish teacher. I wrote a very mean insult, directed at my teacher by name, on a test paper before I turned it in. I wrote it very lightly, somehow thinking he wouldn't actually be able to read it. Duh! It was a situation that warranted a written apology and several trips to the school counselor, who just sat there waiting for me to explain myself. I had no idea what to say. She finally gave up.

In retrospect, I realize that my teacher had been making me very uncomfortable. He sat me in the front row and constantly drew attention to my work in front of the class. My little 12-year-old brain didn't know how to stop it and may have sensed something a bit more insidious than just being the teacher's pet. I felt guilty for years for being so hurtful, but I think my subconscious was simply protecting me.

In 8th grade, I started studying French.