"What kind of a retarded freak are you?"

My birthday is in September, so I was just 11 years old when I started 7th grade. My Spanish teacher was going over the lesson, and I kept mispronouncing several words. She finally exploded at me in front of the class and said, "What kind of a retarded freak are you?" 

I turned bright red while more than 60 eyes zeroed in on my agony. 

Later that day, I went home and just cried. Cried and cried. My parents were the type that felt the teacher could do no wrong. It was the first time in my life someone other than family had made me feel so worthless and useless. 

Somehow, I made it through 7th grade and the Spanish language well enough to become fluent in it. 

Years later, I became a New York City teacher. I spent about 30% of my time as a teacher speaking Spanish with students, most of whom were from Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic. 

In my last year teaching before I retired, a student asked me why I became a teacher. It was at that very moment I actually realized why. 

I never wanted another child to be publicly humiliated by a teacher like I was by my 7th grade Spanish teacher.