Yesterday while I was melting on my bed with a fan pushing 40°C air onto my face I was reminiscing about good ol' times in High School. Good ol' times.
Memories of my first sophomore English class The new teacher walked in the classroom on the first day. He was a man in his forties. His smooth clothes had been ironed out and not a strand of hair was out of place, which contrasted with the conspicuous white chalk marks on the pockets of his blue jeans. Maybe an oddball, I thought. I like oddballs.
It would have been a redeeming quality if he had been a bit on the silly side because generally I abhor English classes and having a silly teacher would make the year a little more bearable.
Without trying to say anything louder than the deafening chatter in the room he wrote his name on the blackboard, turned around and stared at the class until everybody settled in their seats. When the noise died down he scanned the room until his eyes rested on me. I was sitting somewhere in the second or third row, looking back at him.
"YOU!", he yelled, pointing a chalk stained finger at me.

I was taken aback.
"I can see you're afraid! But no need to be scared, English is easier than you think!"
Without pause for thought, I replied, "Don't worry, I'm not afraid."

He ignored me and went into the hardcore English stuff: how to formulate questions in English using irregular verbs. The moment he mispronounced 'read' in, "Have you read ("reed" and not "red") the book?" I just put my head on my desk and fell asleep. It was a long year.

To this day, I wonder why he thought I was afraid of very basic English class. Maybe my wide googly eyes gave him that impression?