It had been a long time since the 10th grade had a reliable literature teacher. One quit after barely a month, another took maternity leave. When Anna arrived—young, well-groomed, composed—the students exchanged glances, thinking, “Here comes another short-term replacement.”
On her first day, she handed out a test.
“Open your notebooks,” she instructed.
A student from the back shouted, “We didn’t bring any!” and the class burst into laughter.
Another smirked, “Maybe introduce yourself before you start teaching?”
Anna paused calmly and replied, “I’m Anna.”
That triggered more laughter—“Nice granny glasses!” someone mocked, sniffing the air and declaring she smelled like “old perfume.”
A phone nearby blared a donkey’s bray, and a paper airplane whizzed past her as she wrote on the board.
Turning around, Anna caught sight of a student whispering, “Gonna cry and run off like the last one?”
Someone yawned, another’s textbook tumbled to the floor, chairs creaked, and someone casually flipped through TikTok on a tablet.
Anna paused, then quietly and without drama, sat on her desk’s edge. Her words cut through the noise:
“I wasn’t always a teacher. Just a year ago, I worked on a teen cancer ward—teens just your age. They treasured everything: poetry, novels, conversation.”
She continued, “A seventeen-year-old boy with sarcoma couldn’t speak anymore. We read together. Even when he couldn’t move his fingers, he held the book. He said, ‘I wish I’d loved books sooner. Now I just want to sit in a normal class—without an IV.’”
The room quieted.
“A girl next door dreamed of attending school—just attending a real classroom. And here you are, acting entitled, as if this is owed to you.”
Silence deepened.
“I’ll neither beg nor pity you. I value this too much. But if you want to see what comes of treating this casually—go on.”
She stood, neatly arranged her notebooks, adjusted her glasses, opened the class register—and not a sound was heard for the rest of the period.
