Sitting in a sweaty, stinking GCSE Maths class with a group of 19 other testosterone filled 15 year olds.
Our Maths teacher was a fairly young Aussie man with a thick accent. He was relatively lenient but had a system where if you misbehaved once, you got your name written on the board (kind of like a yellow card). Misbehave again, get your name on the board the second time and you get sent out (red card). It was March time, and for the last 6 months, it had been pointed out to me that my name had been on the board every day – coming like Lee Cattermole & Kevin Davies. I was a little shit tbh and I was proud of that record. As a Nigerian, I have a typically 20+ syllable name, which even when shortened people struggle with – three letters.
There were 5 mins left of this class, the last of the day, and my friend whispered to me, “Yo, look at the board.”
I looked up to see my name not there, for the first time the whole year. It was like seeing Ant without Dec. So I turned on prick mode, shouting out loud in the class, being a complete moron. The teacher, I’m guessing knew what was going on as he started to write my name on the board. He wrote the first letter, stopped and then put …… saying “that’s how you lot spell it isn’t it?”
“OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH” the whole class went mad. I had been mocked. I got up “Are you fucking mad?!”
He went bright red. He knew he had messed up and let it slip. I had finally driven him to breaking point and in doing so any slight racial stereotype or slur had come out.
I walked myself out of the class. Came back in after to apologise (only for the swearing and only so my Mum didn’t find out and beat the living daylights out of me). Before I got there, he apologised. He knew it was a madness. I apologised too. Our relationship was frosty from that moment though. And my disciplinary record took an instant turn for the better.
Your True Colours Come Out When You're Angry
This post was written by Ndubuisi Uchea