I have all of this done, but I just need an ending to tie it all up. In the ending, I want to say that the teacher discriminated against me because im muslim and I wear a headscarf, and how teachers, of all people, shouldnt discriminate. i realized that i was being discriminated against when i noticed she treated the new student like she did me. But, in the end i thank her because it helped me learn to stand up for myself and what i believe in, and i take pride in doing that now. How can I say that eloquently? Heres the paper...
I think if you were to ask a grade-school teacher which grade they most prefer teaching, they would probably choose either elementary or high school. I suppose the worst get stuck teaching middle school, during one of most turbulent times in a student's life, and I don't know if its the reason that time period seems to be the worst for students. It might be that the students ruin the experience for themselves in their internal chaos, or that the teachers become bitter after years of attempting to teach kids at their worst. Either way, in my case those years were when I experienced my worst teachers, but Ms. Gordon was the worst.
I remember distinctly the crisp fall morning of my first day at public school. I had always been shy, and new social scenes always made my stomach churn. But that day I was surprisingly not nervous as I treaded the dewy grass to the door of the black glass building. "Excuse me, where is the track 7-3 pod?" I asked a thin blonde teacher directing new students to their respective places. I made my way through the mass of middle school students as they chatted with friends. This was definitely different from private school, in a way I had never expected.
The day went along slowly; I spent it trying my absolute best to not draw attention to myself. I imagine I looked very tense and insecure, my hands folded across my chest, and my head down, trying to make myself look as small and invisible as possible, enclosing myself in my own space, wondering where I could possibly fit in outside my bubble. After a very awkward lunch hour spent sitting alone, I followed in the single-file line to Ms. Gordon's Language Arts class.
When we entered, she was grinning enthusiastically, but somehow it wasnt welcoming at all. We all sat down, and she started to take attendance. One by one she called out the names, and I sat impatiently waiting for her to call mine. A girl named Mila sat two rows ahead of me, and when her name was said I raised my hand. Ms. Gordon looked at me and sneered, "Your name is Mila?". "No, I thought you said my name, I'm sorry", I said quickly.
One of our first assignments was to create a folder describing our personalities. We were to clip words and pictures from magazines and paste them to the front of the folder. Ms. Gordon was helping some students in finding words, and I asked her to find some words which would describe me. Again, she looked at me with contempt and said, "Well, the only word I can find to describe you is quiet". As if "quiet" were some sort of horrible insult. Ms. Gordon prided herself in being what she called fun, spontaneous and outgoing. Every so often, she would run her hands over her head; she liked it when her hair was "wild" like herself, she said. Somehow, all of this seemed to me to be an artificiality, and I found her irritating, though I never expressed it, of course.
If I did, she would surely have given me detention during lunch, as she did when I had forgotten a homework assignment once, and she took it upon herself to scold me for it in front of the whole class. "You have some attitude", she said. "You don't even look me in the eye when I'm talking to you". That she wanted me to look her in the eye was a revelation to me, since in private school we were taught that looking down was a sign of respect, and I was always as respectful as possible to her in an attempt to get on her good side. I was blind not to realize that I was the only one she ever felt like singling out.
Well, I was until a new student came to class in the middle of the year from Somalia. She had a bewildered look on her face always, and she didn't know one word of English. When Ms. Gordon spoke to her, she strained to understand what she was saying and answered in "no" or "yes". Ms. Gordon knew well that she knew no English, and yet she would still ask her questions she didn't understand. Perhaps she enjoyed the opportunity to put on that exasperated face and to sigh at the poor girl.
Out of all of the students in the class, I think she felt that she could relate to me because we were both Muslim. Out of sympathy, I took it upon myself to help her as much as I could. Which wasn't much because she had a lot of catching up to do in schoolwork, to say the least. She didn't even know her multiplication tables yet. I guess the bewilderment on her face could be interpreted as a stupid sort of look, and Ms. Gordon found that annoying. I would sit next to her to attempt to help her on the classwork, and when she didn't understand my explanation, I made the mistake of calling on Ms. Gordon to help her. She came to the desk, and read the instructions quickly. The girl just looked at her and shook her head, and Ms. Gordon slammed the paper down on the desk in front of her and said "Im so sick of this!" and left her. She turned around and pointed a wrinkled finger at me to say, "I want you to do your work first from now on, before you go helping other people" . I went back to my own desk and when I turned around, the girl was crying.
