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There were two other letters. One was from a boy of fourteen who
had been moved to write to Aunty Emang about being picked upon
by his teacher. "I am a hard-working boy," he wrote. "I do all
my schoolwork very carefully and neatly. I never shout in the
class or push people about (like most other boys). When my
teacher talks, I always pay attention and smile at him. I do not
trouble the girls (like most other boys). I am a very good boy
in every sense. Yet my teacher always blames me for anything
that goes wrong and gives me low marks in my work. I am very
unhappy. The more I try to please this teacher, the more he
dislikes me. What am I doing wrong?"
Everything, thought Mma Ramotswe. That's what you are doing
wrong: everything. But how could one explain to a
fourteen-year-old boy that one should not try too hard; which
was what he was doing and which irritated his teacher. It was
better, she thought, to be a little bit bad in this life, and
not too perfect. If you were too perfect, then you invited
exactly this sort of reaction, even if teachers should be above
that sort of thing. But what, she wondered, would Aunty Emang
say?
"Dear Boy," wrote Aunty Emang. "Teachers do not like boys like
you..."
Excerpted from Blue Shoes and Happiness by Alexander McCall Smith Copyright © 2006 by Alexander McCall Smith. Excerpted by permission of Pantheon, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Failure is the condiment that gives success its flavor
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