I am in awe of the word teacher, and I dare not easily blaspheme it.

Confucius said: "A teacher can preach and teach and solve doubts." ”

I respect my teachers as much as I respect my parents.

However, in my childhood, it seemed that there was an irresolvable conflict between my mother and my teacher, an insurmountable gap, and that was me.

And these contradictions and disparities are the fault of poverty.

So, my other name is poverty.

Poverty is like infiltrating into my bones, blending into my blood plasma, and only scraping bones to cure poison and exchange blood for rebirth can save a glimmer of life.

And my source is not because of love, but because of poverty, the product of a generation of spiritual poverty as well as material poverty.

The teachers were saints who longed to save me from the cycle of generational deprivation.

My mother was a pauper who longed to entrust me from a cycle of generational deprivation.

So what about me, I am a copper pea that is not steamed, cooked, cooked, pounded, fried, or exploded.

It does not open its mind, nor does it sprout.

I went through an incident in sixth grade where I subconsciously became a copper pea.

At that time, I was always able to write essays quickly and well in homework classes, better than my classmates of the same age, at least my teacher gave me such a piece of information.

I think it stems from my really good memory. At that time, I could read an article and quickly memorize it word for word. So, I felt that my essay was copied, and I felt very empty, but my teachers didn't think so.

They think that the reason why I can write a good essay in composition class is because I observe a lot of subtleties and read a lot.

I often get praise for how well I write my essays.

When I was in the sixth grade, my Chinese teacher was a teacher who had been teaching for 30 years, and she was also the teacher of my eldest sister and second sister. So, he's very revered by my mom.

However, this reverence seems to meet a copper pea like me, like the snow in winter meets the wind in spring, and it melts after a few "whirring ......".

When I was in the sixth grade, my Chinese teacher already knew me. I remember one time, in a Chinese class, I wrote an essay entitled "My Childhood Game Paradise - Qinglongling", and my Chinese teacher expressed great appreciation for my composition.

Then, in a self-study class, he asked me to his office to discuss my composition, imagination and reading comprehension, as well as the books I had read. He also predicted that if I continued to write, I would be able to write well, and suggested that I actively submit it.

He said: "I have taught almost 30 classes of students this year, and if you are serious, you are my 30th class of students. Your writing isn't the best I've ever seen, but your rich imagination is something I've rarely seen......"

That day, he spoke these words to me in a heartfelt manner, so that I could keep my true colors and keep writing things like that.

In fact, I didn't understand what he said, I just remembered that my essay was better evaluated and remembered what he said. As for the rest, what imagination, what keeps the true colors, what insists on writing, such abstract words, I don't understand, let alone understand. I just have a good memory, I just remember.

So, my tail bone has been jumping higher and higher ever since. I started reading only literature books, even in math class, and then, the teacher picked up the book and hit me in the back of the head, and I got used to it.

Being beaten, in my childhood, was the norm of life. Because making mistakes is the fastest way to learn, and I naturally do, so when I start not making mistakes, it means that I am at the top of the bottle.

Again, my Chinese teacher called me to the office and showed me an essay contest with a primary and secondary school organizing a submission activity for a county-level essay competition.

The teacher gave me a topic, which was an argumentative essay, and asked me to try to write about it.

In fact, even though I had learned about argumentative essays in my language class, I didn't understand what argumentative essays meant. Because the books I read were more storytelling literature, they just taught me how to tell stories. As for the truth, it understands me, but I just don't understand the reason.

After racking my brain for three days, I still didn't write a word, and I forgot the title of the essay.

About a month later, one day, my Chinese teacher asked me again, "How is the essay writing?" ”

I deliberately asked, "What essay?" ”

"You forgot? Last ......"

"I remember, but I can't write." Before he could remind, I replied quickly.

However, my Chinese teacher was not reconciled and did not let me write again, perhaps he felt that it was really difficult for me. He said nothing more.

But he didn't give up encouraging me.

So, he wrote an article for me and decided to publish it under my name.

Then, he asked me to go home and ask my mom for three dollars for the cost of submission.

In fact, I was extremely reluctant to do such a thing. However, it was difficult to resist the hospitality, so I had to accept it.

Although my mother had already started to order a full set of books for me at school at that time, it did not mean that my family's situation was better, but it was more deeply compelling.

When I told my mom about it, my mom didn't agree.

She said, bells and whistles, what's the use, you just have to study hard.

The first time, my mom didn't give it to me.

However, my Chinese teacher has been teaching for 30 years, how could he give up on a child he has met in the past 30 years who will be accomplished in literature?

Then on a morning reading, he drove me home and asked me to ask my mother for money, to submit an essay he had written, and I wrote an essay.

Reluctantly, I ran home again and asked my mother for money, but she didn't agree at all. That day, she sat the edge of the bed, fiddling with the sewing machine and changing my pants.

During puberty, I started to gain weight. Chubby me stood at the door of the bedroom, leaning against the door frame, standing deadly.

We were at a stalemate all morning, and my mother even picked up my clothes and threw them in my face, scolding me and telling me to go to class.

But I felt that my teacher must give me such a lesson, and if I didn't want to, it would mean that I was hopeless.

All I remember is that I cried. I cried very sadly.

I still don't quite understand how my mother's brain moved when she heard me say that she was going to submit an essay written by a teacher. I must have thought that I was vain, cowardly, and did not dare to refuse. But she eventually went out and borrowed three dollars from her neighbor and gave it to me.

In the afternoon, I went to school, handed over the money to the teacher, returned to the classroom, sat in my seat, and suddenly began to cry silently again.

I think I do love vanity, I am timid and cowardly, and I dare not refuse, so I am willing to follow the teacher's way.

Once, on the way out of school, I talked to a female classmate about it, and she said, "The teacher told me the same thing, and I gave it too." ”

Then, I asked my eldest sister about it, and sure enough, it was the same, but the years of teaching were added a few years.

I was immediately ashamed and suppressed this incident into my subconscious. Forget about it and its myriad possibilities.