An Open Letter to My High School Spanish Teacher

Dear Señor "Español":


You may not remember me, but I remember you.  

I remember how you were originally from Cuba, so you constantly talked about cigars in class.  I remember your obsession with Venezuelan women because they are "the most beautiful in the world," evidenced by their numerous wins in the Ms. Universe contest.  Oh, and I remember all of those Ricky Martin videos that you made us watch.  

I was the kid you named "Pablo" because there were six other Chrises in class and only one of us could be "Cristobal".  I was the one whose homemade clock for the time telling activity was not good enough.  And I was the one whose video about fruits and vegetables was not "third year quality."  Most importantly, I was the kid that never quite mastered the Macarena like you wanted.

But what I remember most about you, Señor "Español", is that time in my third year of Spanish when you pronounced after class that I was the worst student that you had ever had in the entire time that you had been teaching Spanish.  You told me to stop studying Spanish.

Well, guess what?  I just scored a 3/3 in speaking and reading on my Spanish Competency Test for the Foreign Service.  That means that I am professionally competent and know enough Spanish to represent the U.S. government in Mexico.  I didn't even need any of your food days.  Pues, le va la madre.

Love,

Chris (Pablo) 


P.S.  My wife is gorgeous and not from Venezuela.