When I found out his first name was Cecil, well! That explained so much. When your mother names you Cecil, people are bound to feel sorry for you later in life and can almost forgive you for ending up short and rotund and a pompous ass.
I don’t even know if his teaching was all that bad – I learned some French in those four years of highschool after all, enough at least to be able to read the french side of the cereal box. But it was how he made me feel that stands out in my mind and made me think of him immediately for my answer. Sorry Cecil. But here’s all the reasons why.
You were LOUD. Some days you made a beautiful language sound like screamed obscenities. You never made the effort to remember my name and called me Mademoiselle! You played us indecipherable tapes and then scoffed at us for not being able to interpret them. Tapes, when everyone knows the French speak with their gestures as much as with their words. You assigned us the most boring homework on the face of this earth. Verb conjugations and spelling lists. You corrected our pronunciation with shakes of your head and heavy sighs, as if we were all hopeless idiots.
No good teacher makes you feel like you’re a hopeless idiot, even if you are one. So – Vous étiez mon pire enseignant Cecil! J’ai jamais aimé vous! And if that’s not all grammatically correct and properly spelled, Je n’avez pas soins! Maybe if your name had been Andre or Jean-Claude you would have turned out to be a nicer guy and I could have liked you better.