Today I remembered how in my senior year of high school everyone that had my dear AP English teacher,Mr. Berrier, called me Virginia Woolf. I remember that I was severely offended because the picture he put up that he claimed looked JUST like me was of an older Virginia. I was seventeen. She wasn't.
Me: ARE YOU CALLING ME OLD?!
Berrier: No. Do you see that profile?
Class: He's right, the facial profile matches.
Me: UGH! noooooo
Class: Ok Virginia.
Berrier: *smug smile*
Soon after remembering the Virginia nickname, I remembered my deeprooted hatred for my deal ol' teacher. As nice as I was, I did all I could to offend him in my writing. He claimed to endorse free speech and all that expression, yet he constantly used censorship. It pissed me off. In my notebook journal thing, the one we had to turn in every so often, I took a divider page and wrote all the cuss/profane/offensive words that I knew in different fonts and sizes. They were intact when I turned it in. When I got it back he had edited them. Some were crossed out, whited out, and altered. I was SO mad.
Me: how DARE he take away my creative expressions in my OWN notebook. It wasn't even a page that he had to look at. He went out of his way to impede upon my privacy. What a fucker.
I also remember that when I said the word fucker it had suddenly gone quiet in the room and he looked at me. That look. That look couldn't possibly have matched the hatred that darted back to him from my eyes. THAT and I was ultra bitter that he went through every page of my notebook to count my journals and he didn't even look at other peoples'. Ultra pissed. Me. I didn't say hi or goodbye to him for the rest of the year. It was on.