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My Childhood English Language Teacher

I discovered my passion for writing after I quit my day job. So I began to write fiction stories, self-help books, and articles, blogs, etc.


The reason I am writing here about my childhood English language teacher is not that she was my favorite teacher. But on the contrary, because she looked formidable and intimidating the moment she appeared at the door of our classroom and walked up to her chair and table.

Her Influence Over Our Class

She was almost always punctual in class. The class was always listening to her, not daring to make her mad. Because otherwise, she would lose her temper, and the whole class would become as quiet as a mouse, being rebuked by her. Above all, she was a complete nightmare for all of us.

About Her Appearance

She was round and plump and wore thick glasses. She was also short and would always wear a grey coat when winter came, all buttoned up with a woolen belt tied with a knot at the waist. In summer, she would select a wardrobe comfortable with the season. She would always carry a bunch of books to every class she went to. In case you want to visualize her, here is a cartoon version of her appearance at school.

Pic: Cartoon Version of My English Language Teacher in Grade 5

Pic: Cartoon Version of My English Language Teacher in Grade 5

Her Family

She had a slim husband taller than her and had two sons. The elder one studied with my younger sister and the little one got enrolled in Kindergarten in the same school.

Her Favorite Victim

She would always pick on me. If she told me to read, I would read from the textbook and then, in the end, she would comment in front of the whole class, "This is very bad reading, Rosina".

She would read passages from our textbook and straightaway start asking questions. I dreaded giving her answers because I didn’t always concentrate on her reading. My mind wandered in another world, trying to escape and finding solace from the current turmoil.

Our Teacher’s Flaws in Teaching

She made mistakes while teaching and pouring notes over us. Dad, at home, would take a look at her notes and complain where she had gone wrong in my notice notebook, and I showed them to her because I had no choice as Dad was a dominating figure at home. He would question the follow-ups about it.

My teacher, on the other hand, would get furious at times and talk to my Dad directly after school was over when he would come to pick up my sisters and me.

She would get into lengthy arguments with Dad and get defeated and start crying. Dad would smile diplomatically and tell her not to be so sentimental.

Her Goodness Side

There were other times she would even praise me. I once wrote an essay she gave us to write in class, “Journey by Air.” I wrote it down, here and there, fancying and imagining. After she read it to herself silently, she said it was a superb essay. She further mentioned she would go and read it out to my sister’s class and give them the same essay to write. My sister was one grade below me in grade 4.

How I Soared in the English Language

The bigger I grew and the more grades I waded up, the more confident and fluent I became in spoken and written English. I was no longer the shy and backlogged girl. I tried hard to reach this position. And with Dad’s constant coaching at home, I soared and thrived.

But then, my English language teacher was leaving for good for her country. After she left, I got both good and bad English language teachers to teach our class. I survived the ordeals until I left the school and headed towards my home country with my family to settle down and get better standard education.


But my memories of such an odd English language teacher remain fresh in my mind. I think of her often, her eccentricities as well as her best. Where in the world was she now? She had once mentioned in class that she expected all the girls in her class to take up English literature when they grew up. That was not true because I come completely from another field. But now I have taken up writing momentarily. So I remember her more often.

© 2019 Rosina S Khan

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