Algebra Teacher

I bought a book the other day called 642 Things to Write About. It's full of prompts for writing practices and I finally have some time to dive in. I grab my water, a good pen and head outside to sit in the warm air and listen to nature. On my laptop I turn on some classical music to mingle with the yard's music and within five minutes there is a murder.

Of crows.

There's a murder of crows in the trees and they evidently have something very important to discuss because they're loud as heck and a little distracting.

The egg salad I had for lunch is rolling around in my belly and why shouldn't it? I never eat egg salad. I've made probably 50 deviled eggs over the last two weekends and didn't eat one. But for some reason it seemed like a good idea and now my stomach is laughing at me. Also a little distracting.

My skin is itchy because I'm outside in the sun and I'm ignoring it because dammit, I don't get to do this very much. I'm a little sweaty too but that's also being ignored.

I open the book of 642 Things at random and flip the pages nonchalantly, skimming the ideas. I land on one that interests me because I know the situation it prompts. I suppose that's the point of these books. To help you remember all the things about yourself you already know.

"Write down everything you can remember about your algebra teacher." 

He was a dick. He had big bags under his eyes that were permanently fixed and he wore shore sleeved plaid shirts and khakis. He scowled most of the time. In between classes he'd stand in the hallway and tell people to move along like a middle aged Jedi but not nearly as cool. He used to call me 'squirrel cage' and I'm still not really sure what that meant. He failed me once and I was right back in his class the next year. He had a poster of Murphy's Law hung in the back of the classroom and he used an overhead projector to go over the previous day's assignment. If you wrote fast enough and didn't get caught, you never had homework. I was not fast enough and often got caught.

I remember one day I was one of the last to leave class after an hour long test. I walked to the back of the room where he sat looming behind a giant wooden desk, his feet propped up. He was grading papers and as I approached he peered at me over the top of his glasses. I handed him my test, nervous. I hated algebra, he knew it, and he didn't care. "How do you think you did?" He asked me.

I sighed. "I don't think I did very well actually."

He was quiet a moment, looking over my paper. He gave a small smile as he looked up at me,"No. You didn't. But because you used correct grammar--because you didn't say, "I didn't do good", I'm passing you with a C-."

I stared at him, stunned. Another teacher came into the room and he shooed me out to the hall where my friends were waiting. I was almost out the door when I heard him call after me, "Hey, Squirrel Cage! Next time, study."

Mr. Swanson.

He wasn't really a dick. I thought he was a dick because all teachers are dicks when you're in high school. He was a good teacher. He pushed. Do I remember anything about algebra? Not a damn thing. BUT I remember him and maybe that's what means the most.