My Spanish teacher freshman year of high school hated teaching Spanish. Seriously. I know that sounds ridiculous, but she also taught French, and much preferred everything about that, including her French students.
Her room was decorated with French vocabulary and posters, and I’m pretty sure one day she told us flat-out that she hated the Spanish language. Motivating, right?
But actually, she was a good teacher, with regards to actual student learning. I definitely learned the most Spanish with Senorita Pancini my freshman year.
However, Senorita Pancini was a bitch. Seriously. She was horrible. I mentioned that she hated the Spanish language and its students, right? She was neither kind nor patient with her Spanish students, and she was no stranger to the eye roll. When teaching, she stood at the front of the room, looking, and sounding, bored. I don’t think she ever smiled. A grimace, once in awhile, maybe. (I went into a French class once for some reason, and she was smiling and laughing with the French students! It was oddly terrifying.)
And, she was a big stickler about students wearing their IDs. No excuses, she wrote the offender a detention if it wasn’t around his or her neck. Pockets, purses, and pencil cases were all unacceptable ID locations.
Of course, being the little rule-follower I was, I always wore my ID. Plus, I was a freshman, and I was super excited to be in high school and thus, wore my ID proudly. (Well, until sophomore year, but that’s a different story. #ConvictBecca)
But I wasn’t perfect, and my brain was still developing, so one day after gym class, I forgot to put my ID back around my neck. It sat in my purse, hidden tangled among packs of gum, colorful pens, and notes folded into paper footballs.
Oblivious, I walked into the Spanish classroom and sat down. We got to work on an assignment, and I happily worked away, occasionally whispering to my friend Oscar that he was feo.
Senorita Pancini lurched over to check my work. She paused before moving on.
“¿Eva, dónde está tu ID?”
I put my hand to my chest to feel for my ID, and my heart jumped into my throat. I immediately grabbed for my purse and pulled out my ID, getting it around my neck as quickly as possible. I smiled up at Senorita Pancini.
“You need to be wearing it, Eva. That’ll be a referral,” she said matter-of-factly. My heart fell from my throat into the pit of my stomach.
“Can you believe that?!” I whispered to Oscar.
He shrugged. “That’s what happens when you try to be a rebel, Eva.” He smirked at that idea.
I turned around and let out a sigh. Senorita Pancini called me up to her desk. I could see the referral waiting for me in her large, dry hands.
“Sign this. Detention after school tomorrow.” She grimaced up at me, the Eiffel Tower looming behind her.
I reluctantly took the referral and read it over: Becky Garner… not displaying ID… detention 3:15-4:00–Wait a second! BECKY?!
“My name’s not Becky,” I told Senorita Pancini, as I’d told her on the first day of school, and every time after that when she’d called me Becky.
I HATED being called Becky. (Still do.) I hated it as much as Senorita Pancini hated teaching this class.
She rolled her eyes and looked up at me skeptically. “Well what do you want me to put? BECCA?” she sneered.
“Well, my name is RE-becca,” I reminded her as politely as I could.
Senorita Pancini rolled her eyes again and snickered. “It doesn’t matter.”
I was fuming– I was never a behavior problem (except for the occasional giggle), I always did my homework, I volunteered in class, and this was the first time I’d ever not worn my ID (yes, ok, I was kind of a nerd); despite all this, she was writing me a detention and calling me Becky?!
Alas, there was no point in arguing with her. (Plus, I may have been a badass who didn’t wear her ID, but I was definitely not the kind of badass who argued with a teacher, no matter how infuriating she was.)
My cheeks burned, and my hands shook as I indignantly signed the detention– as RE-BECCA.
Senorita Pancini tore off my portion of the detention slip and grimaced at me again.
I turned back towards my seat, and it was my turn to roll my eyes (but only because she couldn’t see me).
That was one of only two detentions I got in the entirety of my high school career. (The second was because I was late to class, and got caught in the hallway by the dean.)
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How about you guys? Are there nicknames people think you go by, but you actually hate? Let me know in the comments!