Papilloma More Condition_symptoms

Scarf



What a story this story of scarf! This week it philosophized all directions: Teacher can they wear a headscarf in the classroom? Where does democracy? Begins proselytizing? Individual freedom or pedagogical neutrality? What is secularism? Is there a danger?
Frankly, I was fine to listen to debates, arguments pros and cons of those ... The only thing I could draw is that "fiercely for" made me so afraid that "strongly against".
Otherwise, no clear and reasoned opinion has arisen in my mind. Let
.
But with all this history, I thought back to my grammar school years. At the smell of chalk, dirty water, rotting sponge and bleach probably always characterizes classrooms. I thought back to the neon light which is presumably still be the same. I'm sure there's little change, finally, since the eighties: the benches, probably the same desperate graffiti porn or engraved at the top of the compass or carefully calligraphy marker. The same Pythagoras, Thales the same, the same poem by Lamartine, even the discovery of America. The same rainy Récrés smoking on the sly puff of Mars, the same stinking toilets and probably even the pretty girls who are now in the same sticky dreams.
I remember my teachers: the professor of geography alcoholic who fell asleep on his Atlas, the gym teacher who wanted to make us men in us choking on tatami mats as hard as wood, a French teacher who threw chalk, the English teacher who was chewing because a gland problem, the professor of Dutch who had called us, and during an entire course in the language of Hugo Claus that the male sex was like the biceps, a muscle that could be driven ...
In six years of high school, like everyone else, I loved some teachers, I hated and feared a handful few. My teachers was a good sampling of the world that I discovered: the forts that we "held" low we made use, sadists, smiling in the old girls in lace collar or exceeded the golden crosses, young trainees one wished secretly that the light would have endeared the subjects most thankless.
This wonderful zoo, I always keep them confused and feverish. A memory whose "net force" (I quote my teacher of physics that we spoke with nostalgia of the Belgian Congo) is certainly positive, carefree and festive.
Since this week, I wonder how I lived through the presence of a Prof. veiled ... How her veil I would have appeared through the prism of my hormones and the underlying disorder related to my adolescence? How could I have lived through this veil of misunderstanding my trigonometry, my questions about the precise length of a "normal sex" on my desperate attempts to look "cool", the terrible vision of my body Record informs growth?
Frankly, I think a veiled teacher I'd swung cons.