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Dear Mizzzz Anderson,
I have never had a teacher worse than you, and I had you in 1975. Thirty-two years later I have to say it again: I never
had a teacher worse than you.
You did not know fractions and thanks to you, fifty people are likely running around calling them "fractures",
not to mention the "quadroponic" equation.
We never used our textbooks and you left the room at least five times an hour. Had meth been available at the time, I'd
have assumed you were doing that. As it is, I suspect you were eating.
Some of my best teachers have been obese so I'm not going there, but you put me behind for all of high school, college
and then nursing school. While other students in nursing school were calculating dosages, I was looking blankly at a page
full of "fractures" that I had to complete before I could move on.
Yes, I could've studied on my own, but my parents paid good tax money in this district and you should've at least tried;
better yet, you should've gone to the school board and admitted you were unable to teach algebra.
Best yet, we students should have gone, en masse, to the principal to tell him how bad things were.
Those times you were gone? Billy Foster got beaten up repeatedly by Tom Converse and you actually managed to walk back
into the room and (I suppose) fail to see Billy's hemorrhaging nose.
For that alone, I hate you.
I hope you're retired or dead so that students are now spared the ridiculous lump of nothing that you were.
Unrest to you,
ChewMouse
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