"The laziest student I ever had"

How I unwittingly escaped the attention of a predator

Warning: The following essay contains discussions about sexual abuse and self-harm—these topics can be distressing for some individuals. If you find this content triggering, please consider skipping or reaching out to a support resource like the National Sexual Assault Hotline (online.rainn.org) or the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline (988lifeline.org). Remember, you're not alone, and there are people ready to listen and help.

Photo by Yustinus Tjiuwanda

It’s like if Napoleon sported a goatee and a sweater vest.

Rumor had it my AP English teacher was a former Army drill sergeant. Then again, that was tame compared to other gossip that swirled around the school. How he would dote on his prettiest and smartest female students—from counseling them from the comfort of his couch to picking them up at the bus stop.

And there was nothing I could say or do to convince him I was worthy of his attention.

For months, I battled for his praise in the classroom; only to spend the second half of the year preoccupied with a toxic relationship that kept me on the phone til dawn. Who cared about the analysis of a Greek elegy when you’re trying to convince the person you (think you) love not to jump off a bridge? Yet I can still remember the moment a pencil whizzed past my ear and clattered to the floor, followed by him bellowing:

Ms. Le! You are the laziest student I’ve ever had, bar none!

My classmates were stunned into silence. Class continued, with me holding back tears and continually swallowing the lump in my throat. There was no point in asking a peer to back me up because we were all scared shitless of him. Even though a suicide risk of a boyfriend is a pretty good reason why you’re dozing off in class, I never got the chance to explain myself.

We crossed paths the following year, after I read an essay about my father’s military service at a school assembly. At the end of the event, he swept me into a hug. “I am so proud of you!” he crooned in my ear, as a potent cocktail of emotions flood through me—elation that I had finally gained his approval, followed by a sickening swell in my stomach, prompting me to pull back and awkwardly excuse myself. Why was he so eager to engage with me now?

Didn’t he remember how much we despised each other? Was he, in some twisted way, trying to take credit for my sudden brilliance when it was another teacher’s encouragement that landed me a spot on the stage?

Two decades later, I’m fortunate that all I escaped with is the occasional bout of workaholism and a penchant for personal productivity. These days, I thrive on to-do lists and outlines. Correlate my caffeine and Omega-3 pills with my afternoon energy slump. I postpone everything from doctor’s appointments to the occasional lunch date for fear of wasting hours that could have spent on writing. Compare that to the psychological toll of trusting someone; only to realize they were feeding off your teenage emotions to groom you into a sexual relationship. In a weird way, my “laziness” had saved me from the unwanted attention of a predator.

But the strength in an abuser is to exploit your weaknesses—he had said nothing I hadn’t heard from members of my own family. Just a few weeks ago, I was discussing my daughter’s summer activities with my mother on the phone. “She’s too young,” I answered to her question about music lessons, pointing out how my husband is a better pianist despite starting three years later. “That’s because you didn’t practice enough,” my mom counters; bringing me back to that muggy afternoon right before that jackass lobbed a sharp object at my head. Of scraping by with a B grade, only to overhear her say to my brother:

She’s smart, but doesn’t work hard.

Every moment I didn’t live up to my parents’ expectations of achievement plays like a movie in my head—from bombing my LSATs to quitting my dream-turned-nightmare job. Like a Mad Libs game, my brain automatically fills in the words she doesn’t have the guts to say out loud.

Lazy.

Stupid.

Unworthy.

But the beauty of being an adult is getting the chance to reflect on those feelings of teenage loneliness; of feeling like a burden to your family and seeking out attention from power-hungry educators and the worst kind of boys. That my mother did the best she could, amidst war and immigration trauma and her own childhood wounds. Moving forward, all I can do is pay attention; ask questions without judgment; and hope that one day, my daughter has the self-esteem to walk away from people who make her feel small.

WRITE 👩🏽‍💻

I just finished fully fleshed out Inside Outline, which clocks in at just over 7 1/2 single-spaced pages! 🙌 Thankfully, the last few months of in-depth story structure training are paying off, which means I’m moving closer to (re)writing scenes again.

Curious about the method I’m following? It involves brainstorming multiple iterations on the seven key scenes, which you’ll recognize from Save the Cat! Writes a Novel:

• Opening Image

• Inciting Incident/Catalyst

• Break into 2

• Midpoint

• All is Lost/Dark Night of the Soul

• Climax (Dig Down Deep/Execution of the Plan)

• Final Image

Not going to lie: I was hesitant about the upfront effort until I saw how much easier it was to spot continuity problems without the investment of drafting and polishing a scene. Now I have a road map to reference as opposed to “feeling” my way through it.

LIFE 🏡

Sometimes it feels like all I’ve been doing is futzing with an outline for weeks, when that time could be spent writing words and making me wonder: Am I being lazy? At the same time, it felt like every weekend last month involved a birthday party and at some point, I started politely declining because I can’t do and be everything to everyone.

I’m grateful for a rich network, but there is a reason flight attendants say to put on your own oxygen mask before helping others. My daughter, my marriage, and my health and wellbeing are more important than any social obligation, and I’ll be honest—lately it feels like I’m swimming against the tide.

BALANCE 🧘🏻‍♀️

So lately, I’ve been focusing on what I can control: how much sleep I get. After investing a small fortune in a new mattress, blackout curtains, silk masks and pillow cases, earplugs, and a BedJet; I have finally figured out what keeps me from hearing phantom baby cries at 3 am: 600 mg of theanine, 30 minutes before bed. (This isn’t medical advice, it’s just what works for me.)

Do you take supplements to level up your productivity?
Which ones and why? Leave me a comment and let me know.

READING 📚

Sunshine Nails by Mai Nguyen. I’ve been waiting for this book ever since they announced the publishing deal, and it did not disappoint! During the opening chapters, I laughed out loud so many times that my daughter kept asking what was so funny. Be prepared to have Celine Dion’s The Power of Love stuck in your head on repeat; while learning how the nail industry transformed poor Vietnamese immigrants into middle-class entrepreneurs.

STREAMING ⏯

Jason Mraz’s Feel Good Too. Mr. A-Z is back with a vengeance! I’m so thankful to share one of my favorite musicians of all time with my daughter, who refers to this as “the rollerskating song.” His latest release is a disco delight; and brings me right back to being a giddy fourteen-year-old, unwrapping the cellophane from his debut album.

COOKING 🍵

Can we talk about houjicha (roasted green) tea for a second? Because I impulse bought this powder from Matchaful and am so in love with the flavor that tricks me into thinking I’m sipping a rich cup of coffee. I do 2 oz. of boiling water with 6 oz. of steamed and foamed oat milk (Oatly Barista Blend is my favorite) and 1-2 teaspoons of sweetener (I prefer maple syrup). Try it, and thank me later. If you have tapioca pearls hanging out at your house, I also suspect it would make an awesome bubble tea base.

Happy August,

Sophia :)

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P.S. In case you missed it, here’s last month’s essay on my daughter’s refusal to take a bottle led to my creative freedom.