My Elementary School’s Teacher
A short story
I have mastered spelling words since I was four, wrote them correctly even though I didn’t learn them.
Words Danced Infront of me and told me how it’s written, but my handwriting is another story.
My teacher in the elementary school, who had pierced her nails and hung earrings or tiny medals that fit their size on, pinched my hand with her wrinkled fingers because she thought I was bad at spelling and dictation.
I remember her screaming spelling the letter she thought I missed, even though I just learned the alphabet, she wanted my handwriting to be understandable.
My first-grade teacher's name is Basma. Her headbands were always bright in color and matched her nail polish and bags exaggeratedly.
She said once that she had a cat, it accompanied her to and from school, and to and from home.
And one day that cat did not return, did not show up with its gray and white fur, someone ran over it with their car carelessly and proceeded to their destination, not realizing how much Basma loved that cat.
On the other hand, Basma revealed the pink bowels of her cat and the tracks of the wheels whose ashes had stuck to the miserable cat’s fur.
I wonder if Basma was disgusted while trying to retrieve the cat's body, did she throw it in the garbage? Did she dug in her garden, making a hole that was not too deep, next to the lemon tree, or perhaps the olive tree, and bury its unclear parts?
Whether Basma did this or not, she still slapped my hand when I wrote the number nine starting from the bottom and ending with the circle and not the other way around.
She still slapped me in the face with cold, clenched fingers because I had decided the day before to change my way, and instead of going home I followed my colleague who tempted me by describing her room and her toys.
In the end, this was Basma, or this was the Basma that my childish mind and my eyes judged, and they were never good at passing judgment.
