I dug up a copy of my high school transcript from 22 years ago.

Looking over it, it made me recall my English teacher in 11th grade who was an intellectual Lilliputian but presided over us like some sort of combination of Socrates and Dolores Umbridge.

Near the end of the first semester’s final grading period she and I got into a huge falling out over various things related to my supposed use of verboten materials in writing assignments (none of which was true — I just intimidated her intellectually) and other issues, and she told me in class and in front of everyone that no matter how well I performed or what I did, I’d never get more than an 85 in her class again.

I said, “Do I strike you as someone who is concerned with my grades? Did I really make that impression on you?”

Of course that didn’t help matters. But she kept her word; I never made above an 85 again in a grading period that she controlled:

Note the 87 on the final exam (she did not grade those so she couldn’t fudge them) and that I somehow got an 81 average despite 85, 85 and 85 and 87 actually averaging to an 86. That’s because she didn’t grade and report my exam, but she did report the final grade — so as some final slight, she reported it as an 81.

Normally I’d ace an English final exam but did the minimum possible on that one as I knew no matter what she’d destroy my grade so I spent about 10 minutes on that one and left. Still got an 87, so eh. Not bad for 10 minutes of work.

Damn, she was a terrible teacher. Yes, I was an arrogant prat but I was honestly interested in learning. That was what my crack about my grades was all about. And why I trashed her and the class leading to the result of “you shall pass, but only with an 85.” Because there was no learning going on in that classroom of any kind and I was angry and disappointed about it.

But she was a cloven-footed demon, truly, and there was nothing I could learn from her.