_Mrs. Falcón: Hopefully polish
I always had been a creative, crafty and independent woman. When I was a child, I used to enroll myself to every free art craft class that were offered at the Community Center. Once, they teach how to do fabric flowers. Very easy for me, so I ended doing the biggest, complex and most beautiful of all. One of the making flower peers was my Spanish teacher (and neighbor) at sixth grade, Mrs. Falcón. She was a rigid, christian lady, who was at her role model and example character all the time. She decided to teach the flower making at the Spanish class as a prize for being good students. So she asks the students to bring the materials, which I already had, to the classroom. My classmates were very excited except me.
She knows that I already knew how to do the flowers. So, I saw an opportunity to leave early, because it was the last period of the school day on a Friday, and that will give time to visit some friends before getting home at the time expected by my mother. We just walk to our houses because it was the community school at the middle of the urbanization and I had this several “altars” which I love to visit almost every day.
As I told, Mrs. Falcón and I were in a kind of friendly relationship because of our homes proximity. So I was confident enough to ask her to let me leave early and I were sure she would let me, of course! Well, she didn't She had plans for me. She wanted me to help her teach the other students to make the flowers. I usually was cooperative and helpful, but this time, with my plans all ruined, of course, I felt harassed. Why that teacher wants me to do her job? She gets paid for this! So I decided that I wouldn't do anything, neither the helping nor the flower, and sit there, in a open and in a absolute challenge to her authority. She gets very mad with me and gave me an F on that day class after lecturing me of been a spoiled brat. (Now, I admit, she was right.)
I waited until the bell rang, grab my bag and run home full of fury tears. Once home, I tried to explain to my mom what happened but I couldn't, the hiccup did not let me. What only comes out of my mouth was; “that stupid daughter of a bitch of Miriam” (Mrs. Falcon name’s), again, and again and again. And the cry was in a crescendo when, guess who was at the door? Yes! Mrs. Falcón: she hears the insult.
I felt like Pedro Picapiedra shrinking at his seat when feeling ashamed. She tells my mom her version of the event. She felt compelled to talk to mu mom because I left her very upset at the earlier discussion. My mom makes me to offer an apology and I was grounded for the rest of the weekend which was devastating because our group was planning a bicycle competition riding around the urbanization.
She knows that I already knew how to do the flowers. So, I saw an opportunity to leave early, because it was the last period of the school day on a Friday, and that will give time to visit some friends before getting home at the time expected by my mother. We just walk to our houses because it was the community school at the middle of the urbanization and I had this several “altars” which I love to visit almost every day.
As I told, Mrs. Falcón and I were in a kind of friendly relationship because of our homes proximity. So I was confident enough to ask her to let me leave early and I were sure she would let me, of course! Well, she didn't She had plans for me. She wanted me to help her teach the other students to make the flowers. I usually was cooperative and helpful, but this time, with my plans all ruined, of course, I felt harassed. Why that teacher wants me to do her job? She gets paid for this! So I decided that I wouldn't do anything, neither the helping nor the flower, and sit there, in a open and in a absolute challenge to her authority. She gets very mad with me and gave me an F on that day class after lecturing me of been a spoiled brat. (Now, I admit, she was right.)
I waited until the bell rang, grab my bag and run home full of fury tears. Once home, I tried to explain to my mom what happened but I couldn't, the hiccup did not let me. What only comes out of my mouth was; “that stupid daughter of a bitch of Miriam” (Mrs. Falcon name’s), again, and again and again. And the cry was in a crescendo when, guess who was at the door? Yes! Mrs. Falcón: she hears the insult.
I felt like Pedro Picapiedra shrinking at his seat when feeling ashamed. She tells my mom her version of the event. She felt compelled to talk to mu mom because I left her very upset at the earlier discussion. My mom makes me to offer an apology and I was grounded for the rest of the weekend which was devastating because our group was planning a bicycle competition riding around the urbanization.