My biggest scar? Or my deepest scar? I shall tell about both. My biggest scar runs across my eyebrow, and I got it when I lost a fight with a chair at my grandmother’s house. Picture this: a valiant, braved faced young toddler with surprising good looks for being a 4-year-old, standing on a chair. I was standing on the chair next to that guy. We were having a contest, my cousin and I, of how well we could rock back and forth on the chairs. Little did I know this experience would give me mucho pain-o. Unfortunately, I hadn’t yet learned that my cousin usually wins everything I try. (Except girls’ hearts, but that’s a given.) We rocked back and forth until I finally lost balance, crashing to the ground with the chair bearing down on me, looking for trouble. I punched that chair in the face, and would have won except that the chair has no nerves, or a face to punch. So, the chair roundhouse-kicked me in the eyebrow, and that’s my biggest scar.
My deepest scar runs into my very heart. Many of you know my father is Tom Hansen, government/history/math teacher and tennis coach extraordinaire. If you didn’t previously know this, I guess I just gained your sympathy. Many, many innocent students have been emotionally scarred by him, but not in your most horrific nightmares can you imagine living with him. The scar left by him pierces through my very heart! In fact, I’m fairly certain it pierces all my vital organs. A few of you may have teachers as parents, but it’s still not the same as mine. He’s the kind of guy that will burst into English class demanding to see your math homework. We’re talking about the same guy who walks randomly into Spanish class, rattling off the language like a native of east LA.
My scars are deep, and my complaints few. What you should really take away from this is that I must be a pretty cool guy to have survived chairs and Tom Hansen alike, yet still be able to act fairly normal. Have you gained a new respect for me? If not, you must have seen it all.
My deepest scar runs into my very heart. Many of you know my father is Tom Hansen, government/history/math teacher and tennis coach extraordinaire. If you didn’t previously know this, I guess I just gained your sympathy. Many, many innocent students have been emotionally scarred by him, but not in your most horrific nightmares can you imagine living with him. The scar left by him pierces through my very heart! In fact, I’m fairly certain it pierces all my vital organs. A few of you may have teachers as parents, but it’s still not the same as mine. He’s the kind of guy that will burst into English class demanding to see your math homework. We’re talking about the same guy who walks randomly into Spanish class, rattling off the language like a native of east LA.
My scars are deep, and my complaints few. What you should really take away from this is that I must be a pretty cool guy to have survived chairs and Tom Hansen alike, yet still be able to act fairly normal. Have you gained a new respect for me? If not, you must have seen it all.
