The 10th “B” class had not had a permanent literature teacher for a long time. One went on maternity leave, the other couldn’t handle the students after just a month of teaching. When Anna Vyacheslavovna appeared – young, calm, neat – the students exchanged knowing looks:
“Another one… She won’t last long.”
The first lesson began with a challenge.
“So, open your notebooks,” the teacher began, her voice steady.
“But we didn’t bring any!” someone shouted from the back desk, followed by a chorus of laughter.
“Maybe you’ll introduce yourself first, and then teach?” another student added sarcastically.
“Okay. Anna Vyacheslavovna,” she replied calmly, not flinching. “And I…”
“Anna Viagralovna!” one girl interrupted, mocking her name.
“The smell of perfume from the last century, and glasses like an old granny!” The laughter grew louder.
Someone turned on a recording of a donkey braying, and the class erupted in even more laughter. As she was explaining something on the board, a student launched a paper airplane that sailed right past her.
The teacher turned, her expression unwavering.
“Maybe you’ll burst into tears and run away like the others?” one of the students whispered just loud enough for her to hear.
A loud yawn echoed through the room, followed by the theatrical dropping of a textbook onto the floor. Books fell from the shelves, chairs scraped across the floor, and someone openly scrolled through TikTok on a tablet.
And then, in a moment that stunned everyone, Anna Vyacheslavovna did something unexpected. She calmly sat down on the edge of the teacher’s desk, folded her hands together, and spoke in a voice that was soft yet firm, as though she had all the time in the world:
“Do you know,” she began, pausing to look at each student in the eye, “that some of the most successful people in history were ridiculed when they started? They were laughed at, underestimated, and made fun of. But they didn’t give up. They simply carried on, quietly working, until one day they proved everyone wrong.”
The room went silent. The students, who had expected her to break down or scold them, now looked at her with curiosity. Something about the calm authority in her voice had stopped them in their tracks.
Anna Vyacheslavovna continued, her tone shifting from casual to deeply personal. “I’m not here to be liked. I’m here to teach you, not just about literature, but about life. And if you don’t want to be here, that’s okay. But I’ll be here, giving my best, and I expect you to do the same.”
The class, now completely silent, exchanged glances. For the first time, they realized something—this teacher wasn’t like the others. She wasn’t there to please them. She was there to stay.
Minutes passed, and the students, slowly, began to put their phones away, pick up their books, and listen. Anna Vyacheslavovna had done the unthinkable. She had gained their respect not by fighting back, but by simply being herself—calm, unshaken, and unwavering.
By the end of the lesson, the students were quieter than they had ever been, and for the first time in months, they didn’t look for ways to push the teacher away. Anna Vyacheslavovna had won them over, not with force, but with her quiet strength.
And as they left the classroom, no one dared to mock her again.