2 02 2008

I remember certain teachers, ones so astonishing in their habits (sneaking a flask from a desk drawer, clutching a pearl choker against a pink neck, jump-roping upside down on a trampoline) and so bewildering in their appearance (too-tight too-short plaid pants, lipstick smudged and staining, ill-fitting toupee) that I can still conjure up their voices, their faces, their presence. Most intensely memorable is my third-grade teacher who had it out for one boy in particular–“You think you can be fresh with me, young man,” was her hourly call, at pinched high frequency matched only by the burn-red tipping her cheeks.




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