The word “lackadaisical” reminds me of one of my Senior Public schoolteachers, Mr. Burns.

I had Mr. Burns for “core,” which meant he taught math, English, and spelling. He was an okay English teacher, but he was terrible at math. I was good at math, and I often corrected him in class, then complained about the too-easy level of his classes. I don’t remember ever consciously thinking that I was smarter than him, but I don’t think I hid my contempt for his skills very well.

Needless to say, Mr. Burns did not like me very much. Over the course of the year, he hid his dislike less and less well. He never called on me in class. He never chose me to be Pupil Of The Month, an award traditionally given to the highest ranking student, even though I graduated top in my class that year. He even hauled me out into the hallway a few times to discuss my “bad attitude.” I wasn’t too bitter — well, maybe a little about that Pupil Of The Month thing.

For spelling class we had to make up our own word lists, complete with definitions for each word and a sentence illustrating its use. One week I included the word “lackadaisical,” which was in a novel I was reading. Mr. Burns accused me, in front of the whole class, of inventing this word to make him look stupid. Seriously! I was incensed that he would call me a flat-out liar. A quick visit to the dictionary proved me right and I’m sure I did my fair share of gloating. Certainly the story has entered my family history as The Time Lynn Showed Up Stupid Teachers Everywhere.

The weird thing is that I never really hated Mr. Burns very much. I had a lot going on that year — I was in Stage One puberty and was dealing with a lot of Very Important Boy Stuff, plus several run-ins with the local bully and the big question of Who Was My Best Friend. I had a lot of other teachers too, most of whom I liked and respected, and if it wasn’t for the whole “lackadaisical” thing, I doubt I’d even remember Mr. Burns. But on his side of the fence, I turned into this Tracy Flick-like nemesis, the so-good-she’s-evil student who persecuted him, thwarted him, and mocked him at every turn. The one person who, with her too-perky manner and know-it-all sneer reminded him on a daily basis of his failure as a novelist, his destiny to be stuck in a dead-end job teaching pre-teens forever and ever.

The one thing I do credit Mr. Burns with is the creation of a Grade 8 journal. Every day in English class he’d write a topic on the board, and then we had a few minutes to write on that topic in a top-secret journal, a book that he would never read or mark. This was supposed to develop our writing skills by allowing us to capture our free form thoughts, but I totally took advantage of the never-read rule to use it as my personal diary. I’d write a few sentences on the topic — in case Mr. Burns looked over my shoulder, as he often did — but then I’d veer off into a discussion of whether The Boy looked at me today, or what I would wear to my best friend’s birthday party, or whether I should run home after school like a coward or meet the bully in the bathroom as commanded. I think that journal really saved me that year by letting me vent a lot of pent-up emotions, and also by helping develop my writing skills, something I really value. So, thanks for that, Mr. Burns.

I kept the journal for a long time in my bottom drawer. I always thought it would be fun to go back and read it as an adult. I found it when I was packing up my stuff after university to move into my first place of my own. I casually flipped it open and read a few pages and I could hardly bear it. It was just too raw, too emotional — it brought back every memory of being a confused, sad, dramatic teenager. All the horrors of that year — and even the highs, which were scary in their extremes — came rushing back and I didn’t like the feeling at all. So, I chucked it. Now I wish I hadn’t — I think I have the emotional strength now to read something like that — but it’s gone, and that’s a sad thing.

I guess I’ll just have to rely on my “lackadaisical” memory to keep me warm.