Betrayed By Your Own Sex

        My seventh grade teacher, Ms. Mangano, was a woman I admired. She was beautiful, intelligent, young, always tan, and drove a red Porsche. We had a very close relationship outside of school. She came to support me at all my horse shows. I, in return, went to all her poetry readings. She taught me an immense amount. She also taught me the true meaning of the word betrayal.
         The windows were open and a gust of wind carried the chalk dust up into the air for everyone to smell. Bram Stokers Dracula was written across the blackboard. The first question was asked; there went my hand, as high up as I could stretch it. This was one of my favorite books so naturally I wanted to be the first to answer any questions about it. I sat there noticing that this other boy and I were the only two people with our hands raised. She chose the boy to answer. I disregarded it as nothing at first but soon became baffled. "Maybe she wanted to give the boys a chance to answer," I thought. It was not until a few weeks later, when the class was discussing the Catcher in the Rye, that I noticed her choosing the boys to answer more often than the girls. I raised my hand to answer a question and Ms. Mangano stared at me for a good second and then called another boy's name. I could feel my face turning beet red as I slowly lowered my hand.
        That afternoon I went to the so called "guidance counselor" for help. I walked into his office feeling the goose bumps forming on my body from the cold air forcing its way out of a wheezing air conditioner. I turned to see this very round figure with sweat marks that started at the top of his armpit and continued down to cradle his stomach. I explained my situation to him, while trying not to make too much eye contact as he just devoured left over cafeteria food. "You're imagining things Jena," he said as foam began to form at the corners of his mouth. "As a teacher she is required to keep everyone involved in a classroom discussion." This was not the response I was looking for. I asked him very politely to observe the class. He swallowed and looked at me with this dumbfounded expression. I said, "Maybe I should just take this matter up with the principal." The next day I saw him in class.
        That night I made an extra special effort to know every answer to every question that Ms. Mangano would ask the next day. Class began just as I noticed the guidance counselor standing in the back of the room. At that moment, like a perfectly drawn out plan coming into its prime, she asked her first question. I was so excited to raise my hand that I forgot to listen to the question. I lowered my hand feeling like that little ant that you never really notice on the sidewalk but you squish every time. My guidance counselor left the room right after that incident.
        I came home and told the story to my mother hoping for some sympathy. I should have known better. As a computer analyst, who has worked in an all male atmosphere her entire career, she was not going to provide an easy way out. She told me that I had to confront Ms. Mangano and tell her how I felt. I decided my mother was right. I was becoming so aggravated with this sense of betrayal that I couldn't just ignore it. I had to go and confront her.
        I waited until four o'clock the next day to go to her office to give myself time to collect my thoughts. I perspired all night long and continued to up until the moment I knocked on her door. "Come in," she said. I took a deep breath and opened the door. I found her sitting in her leather recliner filing her nails. I asked very softly, almost to the point where my voice cracked, "May I speak with you for a moment?" "Sure," she said with a smile. I opened my mouth except nothing but a squeak came out. "Excuse me" I said. Her smile still remained so I knew it was safe to start again. "Mrs. Mangano, I would like to talk about the classroom atmosphere. I feel like you are favoring the boys and not giving the girls a chance to become part of the discussion." I felt as though I was complaining too much, but I continued. As soon as I was finished, she paused. Her smile was replaced by a blank stare. She then responded, "I am so sorry, I never realized." I let a breath of air out not even realizing I had been holding it in for the whole conversation. I was so relieved that I finally let this information out I ignored the feeling of disappointment that was still lingering inside.
        We continued to have our relationship outside of school. But things never totally changed in the classroom. There were times where I could almost sense her hesitating before she called on boy, which made me feel as though I had actually impacted her way of thinking. I spent the remainder of the year trying as best I could to be a diligent worker and ignore the mishap if it occasionally occurred. But whenever I saw that hesitation in her expression I refused to wait for that disappointment to hit. Instead, I began calling out answers before she could choose someone to answer them.
                                                                                                                                    Jena Rand