What teacher insulted you in your own language?

My math teacher didn’t think I spoke Spanish. That was her first mistake.

I was born in California, but both of my parents moved here from Colombia when they were teenagers. Spanish was the language we spoke at home—always. My mom would cook while telling stories about growing up in Bogotá. My dad would yell at the TV during soccer games, all in Spanish.

But at school, I always spoke English. It just felt more natural with my friends.

Miss Graham was new to our school. She’d transferred from some small rural town upstate, where apparently no one looked like me. From the start, she made comments about “diversity programs” and how “standards were slipping,” but always said them quietly—like she assumed none of us would understand.

During my second week in her algebra class, I was presenting a group project about linear equations. I made a small mistake explaining one step—nothing major. But Miss Graham leaned toward her teaching assistant and whispered in Spanish:

"Otro perezoso. Su gente nunca se esfuerza."
Another lazy one. His people never try hard.

I froze.

Did she just insult me—in Spanish—right in front of me?

I kept my face calm and acted like I didn’t get it. But inside, I was furious. The worst part? She smiled, like she’d just gotten away with something clever.

That night, I told my mom everything.

My mom works two jobs—cleaning offices at night and doing laundry during the day. She doesn’t take disrespect from anyone, especially not from a teacher insulting her son.

But instead of storming into the school like I expected, she sat down at our kitchen table and came up with a plan.

She said, “Keep track of everything. Write down what she says with the date and time. And whatever you do, don’t let her know you speak Spanish.”

So, I did exactly that.

For the next two weeks, I acted like I didn’t understand a word of Spanish. Miss Graham kept making comments, thinking she was safe. She called me and other Latino students lazy, said our parents didn’t care about school, even joked that we’d probably drop out.

I wrote down every word. Every date. Every moment.

Parent-teacher conferences were set for a Thursday night. My mom took off work early—a big sacrifice for her—and we walked into that classroom together.

Miss Graham saw us and immediately put on that condescending smile teachers get when they assume they’re talking to parents who don’t speak English.

“We might need a translator,” she said to the assistant principal, slowly and loudly like that would help.

That’s when I spoke up. In perfect Spanish.

“Actually, Miss Graham, we understand you perfectly.”

“Just like I did on September 15th when you called me lazy. And on September 22nd when you said Hispanic students don’t try. And on October 3rd when you told Mrs. Peterson we’d probably drop out anyway.”

Miss Graham’s face went completely pale.

The assistant principal, Mr. Hayes, who also spoke Spanish, looked shocked. I kept going. I told him everything—word for word. Dates. Times. What was said. Who she said it to.

My mom didn’t say anything at first. She just nodded while I spoke.

Then, when I finished, she looked at Miss Graham and said, in clear English:

“My son has a 3.8 GPA. He’s in honors classes. He volunteers at the community center every weekend. Maybe you should worry less about ‘our people’ and more about your teaching.”

The room was dead silent.

Miss Graham tried to come up with an excuse, saying she was misunderstood, but Mr. Hayes stopped her and asked her to step outside so he could talk with us privately.

The next day, Miss Graham wasn’t in class. We had a substitute.

Word spread quickly.

By Monday, everyone knew: she’d been placed on administrative leave pending an investigation.

Three weeks later, the principal made an announcement—Miss Graham had “resigned to pursue other opportunities.”

I finished the semester with an A+ in Algebra.

Turns out, when your teacher isn’t insulting you in a language she thinks you don’t understand, learning gets a lot easier.