Hello, Candies. This Wednesday, the school bells at my local academy for adolescents started tolling again, and I had to be up at 6:45 am once more. At the beginning of each year at an American middle or high school, one must always meet their new instructors, whether with unrestrained excitement (me) or with cold, dark dread (also me). This emotionally stressful day absolutely had to become a chronicle in the never-ending epic of Nandy, so here is my first day in school, 200% overdramatized.
So we start off at about 6:35 am when the first of two alarms I set for myself goes off. At this point, I'd already been awake for a while due to jitters and the fear that I'd somehow sleep through my two obnoxiously loud wake-up calls, but even so, the thought of removing myself from the warm cocoon of my blankets and heading off to the cold, hard seats of my new desks was a thought I didn't want to entertain. However, I had no choice. Off to school I went that day, after the obligatory photo-ops and "you're such a big girl now" coos. What happened from now until 1:12 pm. would set the tone for the next 10 months.
Ok, time for my first class. The first teacher I visited that day was my Spanish 1 teacher, whom I will not name. She started class with one word I recognized (Bienvenidos) followed by a bunch of other words in Spanish that I couldn't dream of following. This was not going to be une caminata en el parque, I soon realized. The teacher herself was an old grandma, so maybe she will understand our plight with her years of experience teaching, but I knew then that this class was going to require some work.
Second period was P.E., so nothing special happened there. We sat and listened to the teacher map out our year for us, and it was a welcome break (as about 99% of breaks are). He seemed nice, if demanding, but totally manageable. Afterward followed the highlight of my day; English. No, the subject wasn't my favorite, and no, what we were doing that day wasn't exactly a thrill ride, but this teacher seemed right up Nandy Alley. She was young and relatable because of it, and her intelligence and sense of fun showed through her every action. But alas, the period had to end, and off to science I went.
Science was, again, nothing too special. Our teacher seemed funny but down-to-Earth, and we soon immersed ourselves in a brain-intensive first-day activity. Lunch after that was also just like last year, with nothing much else happening to take my mind off the dread I still carried with me from the beginning of the day, the dread of my notoriously disagreeable fifth-period teacher. All too soon, the bell rang for the end of lunch, and I trekked to my history lesson with a pounding heart.
Mr. HistoryTeacher was a master of instilling fear into the hearts of innocent teenagers, as I was soon to find out. He spoke with a gruff voice such bitingly sarcastic words I was simultaneously marking his as one of my worst teachers of all time him and afraid of what would happen if I hated him and he found out. "Maybe he'll get better or I'll develop a thicker skin soon," I thought. When the bell rang, I felt more relieved than I had for a while, and I dashed off to math.
My math teacher, pleasantly enough, was actually my math teacher from 7th grade who happened to move up to teaching 8th this year. Since I liked her style of teaching and her approachability, she was both a bit of familiarity and a break from my history teacher's inaccessible manner. Her grading, she said, wasn't going to be as easy this year as it was last, but those were trial matters in the wake of my history nightmare. After that class, the day was over.
To see updates on how the rest of the year plays out, make sure to follow this blog and come back every Friday for posts!
So we start off at about 6:35 am when the first of two alarms I set for myself goes off. At this point, I'd already been awake for a while due to jitters and the fear that I'd somehow sleep through my two obnoxiously loud wake-up calls, but even so, the thought of removing myself from the warm cocoon of my blankets and heading off to the cold, hard seats of my new desks was a thought I didn't want to entertain. However, I had no choice. Off to school I went that day, after the obligatory photo-ops and "you're such a big girl now" coos. What happened from now until 1:12 pm. would set the tone for the next 10 months.
Ok, time for my first class. The first teacher I visited that day was my Spanish 1 teacher, whom I will not name. She started class with one word I recognized (Bienvenidos) followed by a bunch of other words in Spanish that I couldn't dream of following. This was not going to be une caminata en el parque, I soon realized. The teacher herself was an old grandma, so maybe she will understand our plight with her years of experience teaching, but I knew then that this class was going to require some work.
Second period was P.E., so nothing special happened there. We sat and listened to the teacher map out our year for us, and it was a welcome break (as about 99% of breaks are). He seemed nice, if demanding, but totally manageable. Afterward followed the highlight of my day; English. No, the subject wasn't my favorite, and no, what we were doing that day wasn't exactly a thrill ride, but this teacher seemed right up Nandy Alley. She was young and relatable because of it, and her intelligence and sense of fun showed through her every action. But alas, the period had to end, and off to science I went.
Science was, again, nothing too special. Our teacher seemed funny but down-to-Earth, and we soon immersed ourselves in a brain-intensive first-day activity. Lunch after that was also just like last year, with nothing much else happening to take my mind off the dread I still carried with me from the beginning of the day, the dread of my notoriously disagreeable fifth-period teacher. All too soon, the bell rang for the end of lunch, and I trekked to my history lesson with a pounding heart.
Mr. HistoryTeacher was a master of instilling fear into the hearts of innocent teenagers, as I was soon to find out. He spoke with a gruff voice such bitingly sarcastic words I was simultaneously marking his as one of my worst teachers of all time him and afraid of what would happen if I hated him and he found out. "Maybe he'll get better or I'll develop a thicker skin soon," I thought. When the bell rang, I felt more relieved than I had for a while, and I dashed off to math.
My math teacher, pleasantly enough, was actually my math teacher from 7th grade who happened to move up to teaching 8th this year. Since I liked her style of teaching and her approachability, she was both a bit of familiarity and a break from my history teacher's inaccessible manner. Her grading, she said, wasn't going to be as easy this year as it was last, but those were trial matters in the wake of my history nightmare. After that class, the day was over.
To see updates on how the rest of the year plays out, make sure to follow this blog and come back every Friday for posts!




