Quito, Ecuador, circa 1978 – It’s my senior year, and I’m taking a class that I absolutely need in order to graduate from high school. The teacher is famously hot-headed. I’ve taken one of his classes before, and I’ve seen that bomb go off at close range. Over the years, we’ve all heard the ruckus from our desks in other classrooms. That angry voice cuts through multiple walls of concrete. If we catch each other’s eye, we say nothing. There he goes again.
This whole semester has been quiet. In fact, it’s been basically normal. Until today.
Someone walks in late, interrupting the instruction on a complicated topic. The teacher’s eyes narrow. His face gets red. The bomb detonates.
The late student gets blasted for the disruption and sits down in abject embarrassment. The rest of us are paralyzed at our desks. My heart is pounding, and I’m not even the target. The destruction ends. There is a short silence.
“You have your assignments,” the teacher says, finally. “Get on with it.” He stalks to his desk and starts working. We hear papers shuffling.
We take out our own paper and start working on the assignment. I find it hard to concentrate with cortisol racing through my bloodstream. Five awkward minutes go by, maybe ten.
The teacher gets up and comes to the front of the class. He sits on the stool.
“Can I have everyone’s attention for a minute?” he asks.
Like we’re gonna say no.
He looks over and addresses the late student by name. “I need to apologize,” he says. “You were late, and that was wrong but my response to it was inappropriate. That was unnecessary and you did not deserve it. I owe you an apology. I’m sorry.”
The late student mumbles a shocked acceptance.
The teacher accepts it and tells us to carry on. Then he walks back to his desk.
He’d blown up in front of the whole class, and has the guts to admit he was wrong–not just to the student in private: in front of the whole class.
This example of adulthood I will not forget.
Memory Bits 
