- #1
BigDon
- 74
- 97
At Parkway Jr. High.
Back in the olden days.
He actually taught higher levels but was doing the working retirement thing. He was the first math teacher to demand adult level perfection in our work. One does have to get there eventually and he felt it should be sooner than later. (This was seventh and eighth grades).
I was always on this man's do-do list, despite sitting in the front row and raising my hand a lot.
And then one day I was stuck after class with three or four of my less disciplined contemporaries, some of whom would probably be considered clinical cases nowadays, (as a matter of fact I'm sure of it), and while my attention was on my graded paper one of the other students suddenly exclaimed, "You have a tattoo!" as the teacher handed him his paper and his shirt sleeve rode up.
I looked over at the teacher's arm and there was a 5 or 6 digit number tattooed there. (For you youngsters, this was a Nazi concentration camp registration tattoo.)
I was so shocked that after a moment of genuine horripilation I exclaimed;
"I know what that is!"
And then another part of my brain kicked in suddenly and I realized I didn't want to tell all the little sociopaths around me just what that meant. God (and the devil) only know what they could have come up with with this information.
So as the teacher squinted hard at me and the others looked on with expectation, I wisely kept my mouth shut.
He was always nicer to me after that. Not what you would call friendly per se, he just no longer groused at me, which in itself was noticeable to the others. That and later when no hint of a rumor of his past came to light amongst the student body, he would occasionally smile at me when I greeted him, also uncharacteristic of him.
Back in the olden days.
He actually taught higher levels but was doing the working retirement thing. He was the first math teacher to demand adult level perfection in our work. One does have to get there eventually and he felt it should be sooner than later. (This was seventh and eighth grades).
I was always on this man's do-do list, despite sitting in the front row and raising my hand a lot.
And then one day I was stuck after class with three or four of my less disciplined contemporaries, some of whom would probably be considered clinical cases nowadays, (as a matter of fact I'm sure of it), and while my attention was on my graded paper one of the other students suddenly exclaimed, "You have a tattoo!" as the teacher handed him his paper and his shirt sleeve rode up.
I looked over at the teacher's arm and there was a 5 or 6 digit number tattooed there. (For you youngsters, this was a Nazi concentration camp registration tattoo.)
I was so shocked that after a moment of genuine horripilation I exclaimed;
"I know what that is!"
And then another part of my brain kicked in suddenly and I realized I didn't want to tell all the little sociopaths around me just what that meant. God (and the devil) only know what they could have come up with with this information.
So as the teacher squinted hard at me and the others looked on with expectation, I wisely kept my mouth shut.
He was always nicer to me after that. Not what you would call friendly per se, he just no longer groused at me, which in itself was noticeable to the others. That and later when no hint of a rumor of his past came to light amongst the student body, he would occasionally smile at me when I greeted him, also uncharacteristic of him.