If you think teachers won't understand you, 99% of the time you are right. Most of them (based on my own experience, they are 99%) are too old to play hide and seek, or too busy to blow bubbles with you. They have their own families, for God's sake! You're not a priority! Unless you have your right foot cut.
That 99 % that are too absorbed in their own world are the best. I love them!
The remaining 1% are the evils in angels' clothes. Too young and too old teachers. They are too sensitive. Each has a thousand eyes and a hundred ears. If you have one around you, please be careful.
One of that 1% was Teacher Sole, my first-grade adviser. He was the worst. Let me explain:
The night my father introduced me to Double Meaning Club (composed of my father, my brother, my brother's best friend and the newest member: me), my mother went to our left neighbor to talk about the new talk-of-the-town (I didn't know what it was). My father was forty-three, my brother and my brother's best friend were ten and I was six. We were sitting on my parents' bed. Between us was a blue lamp. Before we entered the bedroom, the walls were yellow. Now, it was green.
"Every problem has a solution," father said. "Well, except for my wife, I can't solve her. She's very complicated. Like Bill's handwriting."
"Whenever I see waves during a storm," brother said. "I remember Bill."
"Last week, when I visited my grandmother in the hospital," brother's best friend said. "Looking at the heart rate monitor got me thinking of Bill."
Until eight, they bullied me. Mostly because of my weird penmanship. Thankfully, my mother went in, forcing my father to turn off the lamp. They all stopped laughing. The room was back to yellow.
"Bill, continue your math assignment. Ask your father if you need help. I'll be back at ten."
She was off again.
Father pushed the lamp's button and asked me to bring my assignment to the bed.
My assignment was adding two two-digit numbers. I didn't understand my teacher's lesson so I asked father. He looked down on the paper.
"I think all the problems in your assignment shares the same answer," father stopped to breathe and grin. Then continued: "Add all our ages. Just the four of us."
The next day, I went early at school. Almost all my classmates were already there and they don't have answers (we were not allowed to ask our parents for answers). So I let them copy my work (or my father's work).
An hour later, I was in the principal's office. The principal on my front, Teacher Sole on my left and my father on my right.
"Not funny Mr. Rake", the principal said to my father. "All papers have sixty-nine on them. All of the kids answered sixty-nine. All of them. All ... of ... them ..."
The principal was right. It was not funny. But the funny thing was: I got kicked out of the school at age six.