The things my high school teachers said that I still can’t believe out loud
I walked past my old high school yesterday on the way to get a flu shot, and caught a teacher yelling at a kid for leaning against the wrong wall during after-school dismissal. It wasn’t even a loud yell, just that sharp, annoyed tone that teachers pull out when they’re ready to go home for the day. And suddenly I was 15 again, sitting at a scuffed desk, listening to some adult say something so unhinged it made my ears heat up, and I couldn’t say a word back. No one really talks about these, right? Not the big, abusive stuff that makes the news, just the random, offhand cruel things that teachers say like it’s no big deal, like they’re just keeping it real.
10th grade algebra, Mr. Hale. I missed one single day of class because I got food poisoning from a bad taco at my cousin’s birthday party. My mom called the school before 7 a.m. to let them know, so it wasn’t even an unexcused cut. I came back the next day, still a little shaky, and he handed back our unit tests. I got a B+, which I was really proud of—algebra never clicked for me, I studied for three days straight for that thing. He leaned over his desk, breath smelling like mint gum and coffee, and said, “Don’t let this go to your head. Kids like you who skip even one day always end up pumping gas at the station off I-95 by 22. Just so you know.”
I was 15. I thought teachers had some sort of crystal ball for your future, right? That’s what you’re taught. So I believed him. For six years after that, every time I drove past that gas station on the way to my grandma’s house, my chest would get this tight little twist. I’d think, is this where I’m headed? I saw Mr. Hale at Wegmans two years ago. He was walking with a cane, holding a jug of prune juice and a pack of frozen Swedish meatballs. He came right over to me, like we were old friends, and said, “Sarah, right? You were always one of my best students. I always knew you’d go far.” I just smiled and nodded. What was I gonna do? Remind him he told me I’d be pumping gas by 22? It’s not like it would change anything. He’d already forgotten.
Junior year, college application meeting with my guidance counselor, Ms. Torres. I had written down that I wanted to major in creative writing. She leaned back in her chair, stared at my list for a full ten seconds, then snorted. She said, “Writing isn’t a real major for people who don’t have trust funds. You’d be way better off applying to the dental hygiene program at the community college. At least you’ll always have a job. And don’t even think about marketing—you don’t have the face for it.”
Her desk had a big jar of lemon drops that was sticky all over from the AC unit blowing right on it. I twisted one around in my hand the whole time she was talking, and it left this sticky, sugary residue on the palm of my hand that rubbed off on my light wash jeans. I tried to wash it out when I got home, but it left a faint yellow stain that stayed until I threw the jeans away a year later. I almost changed my major, honestly. I went home that day and cried to my mom, but she was coming off a double shift at the hospital, and she just said “do whatever you want” while she folded laundry, and it didn’t feel half as reassuring as I needed it to. For a minute there, I almost sent in my application to the hygiene program. What if she was right?
My PE teacher said another good one—when I refused to climb the rope in gym because I have bad asthma, and I’d already had an attack on the track two weeks before. He yelled from the bleachers, “You’re just lazy. Lose 15 pounds and you’ll make it up no problem.” I was 14, already super self-conscious about my body, already skipping lunch most days to fit in with the other girls. That comment just made it worse for a whole year. He didn’t remember me two weeks later, I’m sure.
People like to talk about bad teachers like they’re all cartoon villains, but most of them weren’t. I found out later Mr. Hale was going through a really ugly divorce that year, was probably about to lose his house. Ms. Torres’ own daughter had dropped out of NYU two years before I graduated, was waiting tables back in town, so I guess she was just projecting her own fear and regret onto me. They were just people, stuck in a job that pays crap, dealing with 150 kids a day, and they could say whatever unhinged thing popped into their head because who was gonna stop them? A 16-year-old isn’t gonna walk out of a guidance counselor’s office and say that was a fucked up thing to say. You just sit there, take it, and carry it with you.
I’m 32 now. I make a full-time living writing, I don’t pump gas, I don’t clean teeth for work (no shade to dental hygienists, it’s great work, just not for me). But the stuff doesn’t just go away. Sometimes when I’m turning in a new piece to my editor, I still get that little voice in the back of my head, saying you don’t have a trust fund, this isn’t a real job. When I’m late to anything, I get that same tight twist in my chest I got driving past that I-95 gas station. It’s not like I overcame it all, or that I’m holding some big grudge that keeps me up at night. It’s just these little splinters, you know? They don’t kill you, but you can feel them every once in a while, when you move the wrong way.
I walked past that kid yesterday, the one getting yelled at by the teacher, and I just wondered what unhinged thing just got said to him that he’s gonna carry with him for the next 20 years. No one warns you about that, when you’re a kid. That the stupid, offhand things adults say stick around way longer than any lesson they ever tried to teach you. (Word count: 1182)
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