Class Teacher

Ms Phillipps hated me, that much was clear.
Unfortunately, she changed into the same school.
English grades plummeted from glorious heights.
Belay rope adjusting between C and D
As she became our class teacher again.*

She didn’t mind bullies as long as she liked them.
Mum went to school to argue.
Dad taught me how to box.
So I did. One of them landed in the roses.
Summer clothes make for sauntering scratches.

My loathing of this concrete box grew with each year.
Home was better.
The book selection was better.
The people knew more.
I didn’t have to mask.

Yet, each morning, gran made sure
I wasn’t truant—again.
The loathed smell of lino and disinfectant.
Teachers oblivious to teenage grief.
Reading before school a saving grace.

The shadow of past injustice.
Somewhat righted by mum.
‘Guess who I met in town?‘
Cristal clear glee amplified through headphones.
‘She was walking with her mother.‘

I knew then, in the building of the story
That today had been a reckoning.
‘She asked after you, of course.
I had the pleasure to tell her that not only
Did you do a masters, but also successfully completed a PhD …

All written in English.‘

I am still trying to get the hang of story poems and struggling with them so bear with me while I am experimenting.

*And this my friends is one of the many reasons why I am now an educator, and I do neither trust nor believe in the power of grade marks as a reasonable measure of a child’s abilities or knowledge.