Shengliver’s Note: A cornered rabbit bites.

In primary school, I was a shy girl in the beginning, who did not dare to speak in public. Attention-seeking was not my style then. I never raised my hand to take the teachers’ questions in class.

At the time I worshipped my maths teacher, a fortyish woman. I had thought Mrs Flower was an elegant lady, judging by her demeanour as well as her expertise in maths. She organised private weekend maths tutoring at her own apartment, so every Sunday I needed to go there, together with some of my classmates, to get a head start in maths. Of course, we had to pay. In sixth grade, for some reason, I stopped attending her coaching.

Mrs Flower was furious at my decision to quit. One day she asked me to go to her office, where she told me to resume taking her private lessons. I refused to. I was not aware then that that would be the start of my ordeal.

My maths teacher began to pick on me. She at times shouted at me in the classroom; she even ordered me to “roll out” at the drop of a hat. I felt ashamed and sad at first. The abuse came increasingly frequent, and little by little I could not stand it anymore. Then came a day when I yelled back at the bully, “You shut up, Bitch!” before I burst into tears. Dumbfounded, the mistress was petrified, turning red, blue, purple, and then pale.

After that dramatic classroom episode, I became more and more outgoing and confident and never looked back. I am no longer an insecure girl. On the contrary, I am aggressive now. Maybe I should acknowledge the role my ex-maths teacher played. I owe the positive change in my personality to her.

Thank you, Mrs Flower.