My Teachers' Pet Complex

Since I was little I've always been my teachers' pet. Not only because my own mother was a teacher herself and I used to go to the same school that she works in, but also because I worked hard to be so (i.e. to be my teachers' favourite student). As a matter of fact, I don't know if it was luck, mere coincidence or success that I was always the favourite one to my teachers.

That should make anyone happy. However, I am sure those of you who were in the same shoes before know what that brings on you. War. Everyone is at war with you. Sometimes you would think that this serves you right. You got one thing, you have to sacrifice another. Other times you would think to yourself: "Why should I sacrifice ANYTHING? What have I done wrong? I work hard. I deprive myself of so many things to be an ideal student." And that's the problem. An ideal student. Or so you might think.

I remember more than anything the wars launched at me by students. Some of them would take revenge by cutting my notes and books to pieces (obviously they did not mind a punishment), they would also attack me during the day, eat my dinner, push my petite body to the ground, scratch my skin, play tough in general. My mother always used to defend me and say: "They are jealous, and you should never have them in your life anyway or even think about them. You only have to work hard and prove to them you are the best."

So, as the years pass, from kindergarten years to college, I let it be. I remained my teachers and professors' pet. The one who they always say: "Marwa, you are the BEST. I don't know why your colleagues don't follow your example, bla bla bla." Can you imagine my face at times like these. Happy? Sad? Actually a mixture of both. I knew each word my teachers or professors say would punch a hole in my little boat of hope for acquiring new friends other than my childhood ones.

As a little girl, I always reacted. It's natural. My mind reacted to cope. If you are not willing to be my friend, then rest assured you will not gain my friendship. Even Sahar Gouda, although she was not a teacher's pet herself, had her share of the war only because she was MY friend. They hated her because of me. At the primary school, children would rip my bag and cut my notes to pieces. At the prep school, they would reject and tease me and never include me in their group. At the secondary school, they would attack Sahar at the backstreet of our school. At college, they would talk to me only to use the notes I write and the books I study.

I wish I can call that an ancient history, but I'm not that lucky. Ill-fated maybe. The curse remains at the workplace. I'm my managers' pet!