Like Me, I Hate You

Like Me, I Hate You

I wish I still had my homework journal from second grade. I remember always struggling with wanting to please my teachers, and because I was never the favorite, I resorted to a sort of passive rebellion. At the bottom margin of my class journal I used to write my teacher tiny, hate-filled notes. With considerable practice, I taught myself to write in extremely small print. After turning the journal in each week I would revel in the slim possibility of my mean notes being read, and my true thoughts becoming known. I was never confronted, so I think I began writing a little larger. I did something similar in fourth grade. I went to an after-school program situated only one building away from my classroom. The playground surrounded the classroom, so I would be able to peer in to see if my teacher was there. When the door was open, I knew she was grading or preparing for the next day. I would then shout, “Mrs. ____ is a fat cow!” And off I ran. I did this so often, and I don’t remember ever being caught, which may have contributed to my feeling of invincibility that dangerously persists to this day. The sad thing is that I really liked these teachers.