When I was in what is today called middle school, I had a math teacher. You walked into her class, sat down, got your pencil and paper out and never said a word unless she called on you.
Once everyone was seated and absolutely quiet, she would start class. I don't remember ever seeing her smile.
I remember not liking her very much and watching the clock and just living to see the hand say it was time for the next class.
We did alot of chalkboard work. I never voluntered to go to the board and hated being called on because most of the time I didn't know how to work the problems and just plain felt stupid.
After being in her class for a short time, I began to really listen to what she was saying and to understand what she was trying to teach us. Little by little I began to enjoy it and loved knowing how to work the problems.
I remembered one day she had given us a problem. She had had two kids come up to work it on the board and they got it wrong. I was so excited because I knew I knew how to do it. I raised my hand and headed for the board. I remember it as if it were yesterday. I started to work the problem, the solution started just like the two who had gotten it wrong and the class started to make fun and tease that I was doing it wrong. It was one of those long problems that had several steps and they had left out a step. The teacher was watching me and not saying a word. I did the step that they had left out, finished the problem and sat down. I felt 10 feet tall.
After that day, I loved math class and appreciated a teacher who though really strict, really taught.
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