When I was in eighth grade, I had a math teacher who in today's world would have been kicked out of the teaching profession. He considered himself to be a strict disciplinarian, but in actuality, he was nothing but a bully. His method of discipline included shouting at his class, picking on individual students to ridicule, and if all else failed, grabbing the unruly boy by the arm, dragging him out to the hall and slamming him against the wall before screaming at him...up close and personal. He also coached and treated his players the same way.
I loved math, and because I was so meek in class, he never bothered me. However, I hated his temper, and was afraid of him because of that. I never spoke in class and I don't remember him ever calling on me. I guess as long as I did my homework and kept my mouth shut, he didn't bother me.
One day I realized I would have to speak to him. He had given me a grade which was lower than I thought it should be. In fact, I was sure he had made a mistake. I told my mother about it and she offered to call him, but I had too much pride to let someone else take care of my problem. Even though the thought of confronting him gave me nightmares, I knew I had to do it. It took me until Friday before I made myself stay after school and speak with him.
His classroom was a large room that doubled as a kind of small auditorium, and it was at the front of the building. I can still see it in my mind's eye as clear as I see the room I'm sitting in now. I went in after school, but he was talking to some people, so I went to the back and stood looking out of the windows at the kids leaving. I was too shy to interrupt. While I was waiting, I saw the last bus leave and knew I would have to walk home. Finally. everyone left and I turned and spoke to him. He listened to what I said, checked his grade book, and...I don't even remember what he said. All I remember is the relief I felt as I walked from the room and headed for home. It was a beautiful afternoon and I felt wonderful.
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