I keep thinking about my German language teachers throughout my school years. I liked them both, though they couldn’t be more different.

Frau S. had an astonishing figure. Already, as a young girl, I knew I could never come close to it. I still remember her fantastical behind as she chalked things on the board. Her blond hair waved at her neck, a fashionable pair of jeans, and always, always, heels. She wore heels so often that once, on a school trip, she complained about how strange it was to wear sneakers.

I liked Frau S. because, unlike most teachers, she wasn’t sinking. She had a certain aura of satisfaction about her. Yes, she could be scary at times if the class was unruly, but most of the time, she was totally stable, adjusting her lipstick as she waited for us to finish a task she’d given us. At the end of primary school, I remember being surprised by how well I spoke German. It didn’t feel like work.

Frau M., on the other hand, must have walked into our high school classroom on some unassuming day at an unassuming time. She was comparatively speaking more rotund, though as already established, Frau S’s was a tough act to follow. Frau M. spoke with a jam-like quality. Words softly lingering atop our seated teenage heads, falling asleep, lightly murmuring about our business all at the same time. She didn’t mind being the background noise, though I often found myself listening to her.

One time, she told a story about how, as a young girl, she rode her bicycle down the meadow, falling flat on her face, her skirt flipping upwards. Frau M. laughed and laughed as if not only remembering the incident but turning into the meadow herself.