Every morning was the same. You’d greet the class, do attendance and call us all by the wrong names even though they were on the sheet of paper in front of your increasingly infuriating bespectacled face. Cody? Corey? Carl? None of those were me, none of the fourteen of us in the program were named that, and after six-weeks of instruction I was torn between being concerned about your mental faculties and wanting to pour epoxy in your ears to keep whatever dregs of memory were left safe in your head.
Samantha? Sarah? Sasha? Those weren’t even close to Michelle’s name. Chris? Lenny? Robert? It seemed like you were just plain making fun of Raj. Eventually I stopped correcting and responding to your “Cody’s” and “Carl’s” and only grit my teeth at each attempt to correctly guess my name. I took your ineptitude as a lack of respect. The rising anger I felt probably connected to my bruises pride – how could you not remember my name? I wanted to raise my hand: “Hey Linda? Tom? George? Lucy? Asshole? I have a question.”
Portrait by Natalie Tusznio for #POBEshow 2014