C., then a Jesuit priest, was our junior high school class instructor in Latin. He never liked me, and I recall at least three instances that support this:

1. G., a classmate, once turned to me from his seat to tell me something, and, even if I did not say anything, C. pounced on me and assigned me to afternoon jug,

2. C. once assigned our class to attend an evening lecture by a sociologist at the Philamlife auditorium and write a paper based on the talk. I went there and saw my classmates with C. but did not mingle with them; they seemed rowdy and inattentive. I sat in the back and diligently took notes, then immediately went home to write a comprehensive paper.

After submitting the paper, C. took me aside and grilled me, accusing me of borrowing a copy of the speaker's lecture from an unknown source and further accusing me that I was not even in the auditorium that evening because he did not see me.

3. During the time that we were translating the Catilinian Battles from Latin, C. assigned the class to write the rebel and conspirator Catiline's rebuttal. I did so.

After submitting my rebuttal he announced to the class that I wrote the best rebuttal, read it out to the class, and said that only a person who had a mind like Catiline could write such a rebuttal.

Unbeknownst to him, I considered these instances as extremely flattering. They convinced me that it is most wonderful to be different from the rest--one often comes as a surprise even to one's self.

The insight derived here, however, is not all about me. It is that a student never forgets an injustice or a flattery, and, perhaps, even more so, a flattering injustice.