An Open Apology Letter to My Junior High School Teachers (And All Teachers Who Suffer the Wrath of a Brat)
I still feel guilt from my childhood and adolescence — guilt for the things I did “wrong.” But I guess we are allowed a few passes during our upbringing. I got so many passes during mine, I ended up a despicable, snotty twentysomething. Luckily, I’m no longer a twentysomething. Because looking back now, I don’t think I’d much like who that person was.
My snotty behavior began in fifth grade. I discovered that talking back in class got laughs. Maybe I was a young comedian in the making, or maybe I was just an obnoxious little shit who didn’t respect that teachers have to deal with HELL.
For my incessant outbursts in fifth-grade science class, Mr. Pepsi (okay, that’s obviously not his real name), taped my mouth shut and made me sit at the side of the room, bearing this shame. The only lesson this taught me was that I could get a LOT of attention by being a screw-up. And when he took the tape off my face, I said to him, “Thanks, it was really good for my pores.”
I’m fortunate didn’t go to a school where slapping children was condoned. Given a person with anger issues, I may have ended up with a few jabs to the upside of my head. Thankfully that didn’t happen!
My antics continued into junior high, where I thought for some reason, it was funny to stand on my chair and pretend I was surfing when the teacher turned her back. As a result, I got placed in the back of the classroom in Advanced Algebra for nerds in 7th grade, and I pissed the teacher off more by acing my exams and then surfing in celebration of my “success.” What an a-hole kid!
My asshole-ry continued into eighth grade. I got kicked out of the eight-grade locker area, and had to have a lone locker in a hall by myself. Why? I glued a kid’s locker shut. Why? It got me in trouble. Why was that good? It got me a special locker area. Why did my pea brain like this? I got to stand-out once again, always spotlighted for my delinquency. Man, educators need to learn that brats should just have to do more schoolwork, and not get called out for being brats. Brats like me, adored attention way too much: whether it was good or bad.
All my outbursts gained me notoriety in the junior high school halls, and apparently, the teacher’s lounge too. Once, in speech class, our substitute teacher got pissed at me for talking and not letting her begin the exam. She cut me to the bone that day. She said loudly, in front of all the other students, “You are the talk of the teacher’s lounge.”
I reacted impulsively, tossed my desk, and yelled, “Fuck you. Fuck your test. And fuck this fucking school.” As I chanted these expletives, I ran into the hallway where sixth graders were gathered. And apparently, they were way too young to hear such an outburst.
I left unscathed and ended up getting through the day and making it to play rehearsal after school.
Then Mr. Floorboard, the Principal, (okay, another made-up name) came running up to the cafeteria stage, screaming “Kumar, over here. This time you’ve gone too far.” He grabbed me by the shirt-neck and pulled me down to the Principal’s office.
If it wasn’t for Mr. Rogers the Vice Principal (not the TV host), I would have been punched in the face. Mr. Rogers screamed, “Floorboard, stop. Calm down.” Luckily, Floorboard did. I ended up getting an in-school suspension and flunking three-days-worth of school work.
The lesson this taught me: I still could get away with murder. How? Well Mr. Mercedes-Benz, my advanced math teacher, let me take my test and not flunk because he thought I was too good of a student to suffer. And then, Mr. Rogers insisted to Mr. Floorboard that I still get to be in the school play because hey, I had some sort of passion going on! Yes, I loved being the center of attention.
One story I didn’t mention was when the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded, I turned to my science teacher, Mr. Cutlery and said, “Yeah, and I wish you were in it.” Mrs. Electric Cord, the social studies teacher, and Mr. Cutlery both railed into me for saying this: “Do you realize teachers died? People died.”
To this day, I deeply regret my outbursts, my erratic behavior, my disrespect of teachers. Soon, I will begin volunteering to tutor young people. I’ve tutored before, and I’ve never met a child as rude, cruel, and mean as I was. So I’m issuing this apology of sorts to all those poor school administrators, teachers, and others whom I harmed with my vicious tongue and erratic behavior.
I grew up in a time before meds so maybe I should have been given some, or therapy, or both. Regardless, I can’t bring back those years. But I can recommend giving back to young people, because we were all young (and reckless) once ourselves.
Sincerely,
the Junior-High Cut-Up!
