What A Teacher Is To Me


I couldn’t get a grip on myself. My heart was pounding what seemed incomparably, faster than the speed of light as I sat in the plastic chair for what felt like eternity: a 9th grader aiming to withhold tears like the strong person I was taught to be. I wasn’t a Trojan being  conquered by the Greeks, nor a Native Indian being dominated by the white’s who decided to ruthlessly aim to wipe away their nation. I was a 9th grader who had been waiting for my math result and by the time the math teacher had finished marking I was in the greatest upheaval of states. Over the course of the year, I had had a long, arduous journey with maths and my hatred towards it had only increased, since the first day of the school year, but I had always pretended everything was OK. Now, it was time for the grand…

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