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Two senior boys popped through my classroom door along with the sophomores making their way into class after lunch. Their laughing exclamation was not referring to articles of clothing, but a mispronounced abbreviation of my last name. These two boys stopped in my room with the sole purpose of calling me “Robes.” And in that moment, a dreaded vision of my future at this school flashed before my eyes.
During the lunch announcements, another teacher had referred to me as “Mrs. Rōberson” with a long “O” sound, like the word “row”. It’s supposed to be pronounced “Rŏberson,” as in the word “rock.” My name is like “Robertson” without the “T”. The senior boys were amused because last week we’d had multiple conversations in just one period with their class about how to say my name. “It’s ROBerson,” they’d heard…
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