My ESL Teacher Humiliated Me For Months — Until I Asked Her One Simple Question
Part 2
“I speak English,” she said slowly.
She stretched the syllables like I was a toddler who had missed a crucial developmental milestone.
Her condescension was practically dripping onto the linoleum floor.
“Why?”
“Just English,” I replied calmly.
“This is an English class.”
“I don’t need to speak anything else.”
She crossed her arms defensively across her chest.
I nodded my head.
“Got it.”
“Cool.”
“Just wanted to confirm.”
I smiled for the very first time all semester.
I took a deep, steadying breath.
Then I started speaking Spanish.
I did not use broken Spanish.
I did not use rigid classroom Spanish.
I used fluent, fast, completely natural Spanish.
I told her directly that she was the absolute worst teacher I had ever encountered in my entire life.
I added that my grandmother spoke far better English than she did.
My grandmother had never even stepped foot outside of Guatemala.
Her patronizing smile instantly vanished.
Her jaw tightened.
I smoothly switched to French.
I explained that I had lived in Montreal for two full years.
I am conversationally fluent in French as well.
My mother literally taught romance languages at a massive university back in our home country.
Her face went completely paper white.
She gripped the edges of her desk tightly.
I didn’t stop there.
I confidently switched to Mandarin.
I proudly stated that I also speak Mandarin.
I learned it in middle school purely because I wanted to challenge myself for fun.
The entire classroom was completely frozen in absolute shock.
Nobody dared to even breathe.
Tyler’s jaw was literally hanging wide open.
I switched seamlessly back to English.
My pronunciation was unbelievably crisp.
My delivery was perfectly clean.
I intentionally used zero accent.
“So that’s four languages, Mrs. Gable.”
“Four.”
“You have spent three agonizing months correcting my pronunciation like I don’t even know how to speak.”
“Meanwhile, you speak exactly one language.”
“Just one.”
I stood up slowly from my hard plastic chair.
I grabbed my heavy backpack from the dusty floor.
I looked her dead in her terrified eyes.
“So who is actually teaching who?”
She stood frozen behind her wooden desk.
She absolutely refused to make eye contact with me as I walked out of the classroom.
But you won’t believe what happened when I got my final grade report the next week.
Do you think I went too far by humiliating her in front of the entire class?
Part 3
David pulled the crisp white envelope from the rusty metal mailbox.
The summer heat was already beating down on the concrete driveway, making the air shimmer.
He tore the seal carefully to avoid ripping the heavy paper inside.
The official district watermark caught the bright morning sunlight and flashed momentarily.
His eyes scanned immediately past his stellar math and science scores.
He completely ignored the perfect marks in history and geography.
He was looking for one specific row on the final grade report.
There it was, printed clearly in stark black ink.
ESL 101 with Mrs. Gable.
He traced his finger slowly across the dotted line to the final column.
An unambiguous, perfect ‘A’ stared back at him from the page.
A quiet, breathless laugh escaped his chest and hung in the humid air.
Mrs. Gable had actually given him the highest possible grade in the course.
She had done this despite the fact that she completely ignored his existence after his outburst.
She had stubbornly refused to make eye contact with him for the remainder of the semester.
She had essentially stopped teaching him altogether, treating him like a ghost.
The ‘A’ was absolutely not an award for his improvement in the English language.
It was a white flag of complete and utter surrender.
It was her silent concession that she had fundamentally lost the psychological war.
David folded the thick paper carefully and slid it into his back pocket.
He leaned back against the warm brick of his front porch.
He closed his eyes and let the memory of those three agonizing months wash over him.
He could still smell the chalk dust and cheap lavender perfume of her classroom.
His parents had moved the family to the United States twelve years ago.
They had packed their entire lives into three battered, olive-green suitcases.
They left their home in Guatemala with a singular, unshakeable philosophy.
Adaptability was the absolute key to survival in an unpredictable world.
David vividly remembered the exact smell of his grandmother’s kitchen in Guatemala City.
It smelled intensely of roasted corn, fresh cilantro, and sharp, bright chilies.
He remembered sitting on a small wooden stool near the open, breezy window.
His grandmother would talk to him for hours in rapid-fire, musical Spanish.
She told intricate stories about their ancestors and the history embedded in their local dialect.
She never formally studied linguistics like his mother did.
She simply possessed a profound, intuitive grasp of how words carried deep emotional weight.
His mother, on the other hand, had been a highly respected professor of romance languages.
She viewed language not as a cultural barrier, but as a universal skeleton key.
She made sure David understood the profound power of communication from a very young age.
When they finally arrived in the States, the journey had been both terrifying and exhausting.
They spent seemingly endless days on crowded buses that smelled of diesel and sweat.
They slept nervously in cheap, unfamiliar motels along the endless interstate highways.
His father had carried a small, battered pocket dictionary in his breast pocket everywhere they went.
David watched his proud, intelligent father stumble over basic English phrases at brightly lit gas stations.
He watched teenage cashiers openly roll their eyes at his father’s thick, unfamiliar accent.
He saw the distinct flash of quiet humiliation cross his father’s tired face.
David made a solemn, binding promise to himself during one of those long highway nights.
He vowed to master English so completely that nobody could ever look down on his family.
He practically devoured English books from the local public library branch.
He watched endless PBS documentaries, studying the precise mouth movements of the narrators.
He repeated their polished words until his jaw ached and his throat felt incredibly dry.
He treated pronunciation like a complex musical instrument he was utterly determined to play flawlessly.
By the time he was eight years old, he was translating official tax documents for his parents.
He was confidently negotiating with aggressive landlords over the telephone.
He became the crucial linguistic bridge between his vulnerable family and their intimidating new world.
His time in Montreal a few years later had simply reinforced this essential survival skill.
His father’s temporary engineering contract brought them to a snowy, French-speaking suburb.
The bitter, biting cold was a massive physical shock to their warm-weather systems.
The intense linguistic isolation felt even worse during those first few dark winter months.
David had initially felt entirely lost among his rapid-talking francophone peers.
He sat alone in the cafeteria, surrounded by a wall of incomprehensible chatter.
But his mother sat with him every single night at their small, wobbly dining table.
They practiced French verb conjugations until the unfamiliar words felt perfectly natural.
He soaked up French with the desperate hunger of a dry sponge.
He learned to embrace the unique, singsong melody of the local Quebecois dialect.
He discovered that learning a new language was like unlocking a secret level in a massive video game.
It granted him immediate access to entirely new jokes, new friendships, and completely new ways of thinking.
He returned to the United States two years later with an entirely altered worldview.
He understood deeply that nobody truly owned a language.
Language was merely a communal tool meant to be picked up, modified, used, and shared.
Then came middle school back in the endless suburbs of the States.
He had decided to study Mandarin simply because he found the complex written characters beautiful.
He spent countless lonely nights memorizing intricate tones and careful brush strokes.
He relished the intense mental challenge of mastering a completely different linguistic structure.
To David, words were a vast, vibrant, endless playground.
He navigated multiple cultural worlds flawlessly before he even had a driver’s license.
He never once saw his multilingualism as something to arrogantly brag about.
It was simply a necessary, practical tool for navigating a highly complex life.
He assumed his new high school teachers would possess a similar, enlightened perspective.
He assumed public education was about expanding intellectual boundaries, not building rigid walls.
He severely underestimated the sheer, terrifying arrogance of institutional ignorance.
The massive problem started on the very first day of his sophomore year.
The school administration had lazily flagged his enrollment profile in their ancient computer system.
They simply saw his parents’ origin country and his bilingual household status.
They automatically placed him in ESL 101 without a second thought.
They never bothered to administer a basic English proficiency test.
They never asked him or his parents if he actually needed the remedial support.
He was simply another ethnic-sounding name thoughtlessly added to the roster of the struggling.
David had confidently walked into Room 214 expecting a standard, challenging English literature class.
He found himself instead surrounded by genuinely confused, anxious recent immigrants.
He took a seat in the very back corner of the stuffy, windowless room.
The fluorescent lights buzzed aggressively overhead, giving everyone a slightly sickly pallor.
Mrs. Gable stood at the front of the room like a rigid general surveying her conquered troops.
She wore a pale pastel cardigan and a tight smile that absolutely didn’t reach her cold eyes.
She spoke to the entire classroom as if they were all deeply hard of hearing.
She enunciated every single syllable with excruciating, painful slowness.
David watched her performance with a strange mixture of quiet fascination and mild dread.
He assumed the administrative error would be sorted out quickly.
He planned to politely speak with his assigned guidance counselor after the period ended.
He figured he could easily test out that afternoon and transfer to Honors English.
He raised his hand patiently during roll call to correct the pronunciation of his last name.
Mrs. Gable had butchered it completely, turning a soft vowel into a hard, ugly consonant.
She looked at him with an expression of profound, condescending pity.
“We use our American voices in this room, David,” she had announced loudly to the silent room.
She offered that tight, patronizing smile again.
“We want to make sure absolutely everyone can understand you clearly.”
David had slowly lowered his raised hand.
He realized in that exact, chilling moment that this was not a normal classroom.
This was a kangaroo courtroom.
Mrs. Gable was the self-appointed judge, jury, and executioner of their personal identities.
David ultimately decided not to transfer out of the class.
His parents were currently dealing with absolute mountains of complex immigration paperwork.
They were intensely stressed and physically exhausted every single night they came home from work.
David absolutely refused to add another frustrating administrative headache to their heavy load.
He figured he could just keep his head completely down and cruise to an easy, quiet credit.
He severely underestimated Mrs. Gable’s bizarre, toxic obsession with him.
The environment inside Room 214 was profoundly, deeply toxic.
Mrs. Gable had unknowingly created a bizarre, terrifying caste system among the twenty-six students.
Those who struggled openly and begged for her help were treated like helpless, adorable infants.
She would coo at them loudly and offer overly simplistic, insulting explanations.
Those who, like David, showed any sign of intellectual independence were aggressively targeted.
Tyler, a quiet, brilliant kid from Ukraine, had once tried to explain a complex engineering concept.
He had a brilliant mind for quantum physics but a halting, unsure grasp of English syntax.
He had enthusiastically drawn a beautiful, detailed diagram on the whiteboard to illustrate his point.
Mrs. Gable had entirely ignored the brilliant science he was so desperately trying to share.
She had instead spent fifteen agonizing minutes correcting his improper use of definite articles.
She forced Tyler to erase his beautiful diagram and write basic, childish sentences instead.
David had watched Tyler’s bright, eager enthusiasm extinguish right before his very eyes.
He saw Tyler retreat silently back to his desk, completely and utterly defeated.
Tyler never offered another voluntary thought for the rest of the entire academic year.
This was the insidious, cruel nature of Mrs. Gable’s pedagogical method.
She wasn’t actually teaching the English language at all.
She was demanding total, unquestioning cultural assimilation.
She was systematically erasing their individual identities, syllable by painful syllable.
She needed to completely break him down to justify her own powerful role in the classroom.
The dark pattern established itself firmly by the second week of September.
It was time for the dreaded daily reading exercise.
Mrs. Gable would pace slowly up and down the narrow aisles between the desks.
Her thick heels clicked aggressively against the scuffed linoleum floor.
She would purposefully call on David to read the longest, most grammatically complex paragraphs.
David would open his heavy textbook and begin reading.
He deliberately used his natural, comfortable speaking voice.
He didn’t fake an accent or pretend to stumble over the vocabulary.
He simply read the text flawlessly, as he had a thousand times before.
Mrs. Gable simply could not tolerate this blatant display of competence.
She would interrupt him loudly before he even finished the third sentence.
“Vehicle, not vehicle,” she announced loudly one gloomy Tuesday morning.
She clapped her pale hands together sharply to interrupt his fluid reading flow.
“This is how we say it in proper English.”
David had paused, staring blankly at the dense page of text.
He had actually pronounced the word perfectly.
He had simply used a very slight regional inflection he picked up while living in the Midwest.
He slowly looked up at her standing over him.
She was staring down at him with an expression of triumphant, arrogant superiority.
“Repeat it loudly for the class, David.”
David swallowed his rapidly rising sense of pride.
He repeated the word with her exact, exaggerated, nasal pronunciation.
She beamed brightly, as if he had just miraculously discovered fire.
“Excellent progress today, David.”
Tyler caught David’s eye across the room and offered a look of deep, shared sympathy.
David just stared blankly back at his open textbook, feeling a part of himself shrink.
The daily, targeted humiliations slowly began to mount as crisp October turned into bitter November.
Mrs. Gable seemed completely, blissfully blind to the massive psychological damage she was doing.
She genuinely believed she was molding him into a proper, acceptable citizen.
She considered her relentless, public corrections a noble form of tough love.
David considered them a highly refined form of psychological water torture.
She ruthlessly corrected his perfectly normal pronunciation of the word ‘schedule’.
She insisted he sounded far too British and demanded a harder, flatter American edge.
She aggressively corrected his pronunciation of the word ‘competitive’.
She claimed he was lazily swallowing the final syllables like an uneducated street urchin.
She forced him to repeat common words until the sounds completely lost all meaning.
She made him perform his alleged linguistic ignorance for the entire, captive classroom.
The other twenty-five students quickly learned to avoid making any eye contact during these sessions.
They slumped low in their hard, uncomfortable plastic chairs.
They prayed silently that her unpredictable wrath would not randomly pivot toward them.
The once-vibrant classroom became a tense, silent holding cell.
David slowly stopped raising his hand to answer any questions.
He stopped offering any extra context or interesting facts during group discussions.
He realized that participating actively only gave her more ammunition to humiliate him.
He retreated deep into a defensive, impenetrable shell of absolute silence.
He spoke only when directly called upon by name.
He deliberately gave the shortest, most clipped answers humanly possible.
He essentially stopped being David the curious, multilingual intellectual.
He allowed himself to become David the broken, compliant, silent ESL student.
This was exactly what Mrs. Gable had deeply wanted all along.
The underlying tension reached a dangerous boiling point during the week right before Thanksgiving break.
The class was having a rare, supposedly open discussion about family holiday traditions.
David had briefly let his carefully constructed guard down.
He excitedly described a traditional, spicy Guatemalan dish his grandmother always made.
He casually used the word ‘interesting’ to describe the complex, unusual blend of spices.
He pronounced it naturally, fluidly, with three continuous syllables.
Mrs. Gable slammed her thick, heavy literature anthology violently onto her desk.
The incredibly loud crack echoed like a gunshot in the small, enclosed room.
“Interesting,” she announced loudly to the absolutely terrified room.
“Four distinct syllables, David.”
“You are entirely swallowing the delicate middle of the word again.”
David felt a sudden, dangerously hot spike of pure rage flare deep in his chest.
He gripped the cold metal edges of his desk tightly enough to turn his knuckles completely white.
He knew exactly how the word was pronounced in standard, academic dialects.
He also knew that regional variations were entirely valid and common in spoken English.
He desperately wanted to explain the basic concept of linguistic descriptivism to her.
He wanted to scream that she was an uneducated hack playing petty power games.
He looked up at her smug, expectant, arrogant face.
He slowly released his white-knuckled grip on the desk.
“In-ter-est-ing,” he repeated robotically, staring straight ahead.
He separated each individual syllable with heavy, dripping, obvious sarcasm.
Mrs. Gable either entirely missed the heavy sarcasm or simply didn’t care at all.
She gave a sharp, self-satisfied, approving nod.
“Much better today, David.”
The infamous ‘Library’ incident followed soon after that.
It occurred on a gloomy Wednesday afternoon during a terribly boring discussion about school resources.
David casually mentioned that he found a good reference book in the library.
He dropped the first ‘r’, saying ‘Li-ber-ee’.
It was a completely standard, incredibly common colloquial pronunciation used across the country.
Mrs. Gable had literally gasped aloud in horror, clutching her pastel cardigan tightly.
She marched aggressively down the narrow aisle and stopped abruptly right next to his desk.
“Li-BRAR-y, David,” she barked sharply.
“There is an ‘r’ clearly printed in the exact middle of that word.”
She forced him to stand up awkwardly from his chair.
She commanded him to face the rest of the silent, terrified classroom of his peers.
“Say it again, properly this time.”
David felt the terrible heat of deep humiliation creep slowly up his neck and cheeks.
He looked at the vast sea of downcast eyes in front of him.
He felt intensely, hopelessly trapped in a nightmare loop.
“Li-brar-y,” he forced the unnatural sound out of his mouth.
He heavily articulated both ‘r’s just to temporarily satisfy her bizarre auditory craving.
“Again,” she demanded loudly.
He said it again.
“Again.”
She made him repeat the word twelve separate, agonizing times.
By the twelfth repetition, the word had lost all semantic and grammatical meaning.
It was just a meaningless series of guttural sounds echoing in a cinderblock cell.
When she finally allowed him to sit back down, his throat felt physically raw and scratchy.
David went home that afternoon and sat completely silently at the small kitchen table.
His mother noticed the dark, heavy circles forming visibly under his eyes.
She placed a warm, comforting hand gently on his tense shoulder.
She asked him in soft, concerned Spanish if the advanced schoolwork was proving too difficult.
David lied smoothly and effortlessly, telling her he was just very tired from studying late.
He could not bring himself to explain that his spirit was being systematically crushed.
He utterly refused to let Mrs. Gable rob him of his dignity inside his own home, too.
The agonizing, seemingly endless semester finally dragged into its absolute final week.
The highly anticipated winter break was painfully close.
David had calculated his academic points perfectly over the weekend.
He had easily aced every single written exam and lengthy essay assignment.
He just needed to somehow survive the final two days of class without snapping.
He planned to simply walk out of Room 214 on Friday and never look back.
He assumed Mrs. Gable would simply let the clock run out on the semester.
He unfortunately forgot that desperate bullies rarely relinquish their power willingly.
The final Thursday was entirely dedicated to a massive, comprehensive grammar review.
The ancient heating system in the school building was broken again.
The classroom was absolutely freezing, forcing everyone to wear their heavy winter coats indoors.
The biting cold air seemed to make Mrs. Gable even more irritable and restless than usual.
She paced the front of the room aggressively, looking like a caged, angry animal.
She drilled the terrified students relentlessly on obscure verb conjugations and prepositional phrases.
She eventually, inevitably locked her predatory gaze directly onto David.
He was intentionally staring out the dirty window, watching the grey snow clouds gather.
“David,” she snapped sharply.
He slowly turned his head to face her, his expression carefully blank.
“Explain the subtle grammatical difference between ‘affect’ and ‘effect’ to the class.”
It was a classic, deliberate trap.
It was a difficult question that routinely tripped up native adult speakers all the time.
She fully expected him to stumble, stutter, and fail publicly.
David didn’t even blink his dark eyes.
He delivered the exact, precise textbook definition flawlessly.
He explained the verb and noun distinctions with perfect, crystal clarity.
He finished his comprehensive explanation and sat back slightly in his hard chair.
He waited quietly for the inevitable pivot.
Mrs. Gable’s pale face tightened imperceptibly.
She absolutely hated it when he demonstrated actual, undeniable competence.
She gave a stiff, almost reluctant nod of her head.
“Very well.”
She paused incredibly dramatically, placing her hands firmly on her hips.
“But let’s work on that pronunciation one final time before break.”
“The word is affect, not effect.”
“You are lazily slurring the initial vowel sound.”
“This is exactly how we say it in English.”
Something deep inside David’s chest finally fractured beyond all repair.
It was not a loud, dramatic snap.
It was a quiet, profound, complete structural collapse of his enduring patience.
He suddenly saw Mrs. Gable for exactly what she truly was.
She wasn’t a strict educator demanding excellence from her students.
She was a deeply insecure, frightened woman terrified of a rapidly changing world.
She used a red grading pen and a heavy dictionary as weapons to maintain her fragile sense of superiority.
David slowly took a very deep breath.
The freezing classroom air felt incredibly sharp and clarifying in his lungs.
He let the heavy silence stretch out in the room for a long, incredibly uncomfortable moment.
Every single student was staring directly at him with wide eyes.
They expected him to submissively nod and repeat the word as he always did.
He absolutely did not nod.
He sat up perfectly straight, his posture completely rigid.
He locked his dark eyes directly with hers.
“May I ask you a question, Mrs. Gable?”
His voice was entirely devoid of its usual submissive, quiet tone.
It was clear, resonant, and commanded immediate attention.
Mrs. Gable looked slightly taken aback by the sudden, dramatic shift in his demeanor.
She recovered quickly, raising a thin, plucked eyebrow.
“Of course, David.”
He rested his hands calmly and flatly on the cool surface of his desk.
“How many languages are you fluent in?”
The simple question hung heavily in the dead, silent air.
Mrs. Gable blinked twice, rapidly.
She tilted her head, clearly confused by the abrupt deviation from her script.
“What did you just say?”
“Languages,” David repeated clearly, enunciating perfectly.
“How many do you speak fluently?”
“I’m just curious about your linguistic background.”
She scoffed softly, producing a dismissive, ugly little sound.
She responded slowly, “I speak English.”
She dragged out the syllables as if speaking to a particularly dull child.
“Just English,” David stated neutrally, nodding once.
“This is an English class, David.”
She crossed her arms defensively and tightly over her chest.
“I absolutely do not need to speak anything else to do my job.”
David offered a slow, deliberate nod of pure comprehension.
“Understood.”
“Just wanted to confirm the facts.”
David smiled for the very first time since September.
It was absolutely not a warm or friendly smile.
It was the cold, incredibly sharp smile of a steel trap springing completely shut.
He opened his mouth and started speaking Spanish.
He did not use the slow, halting Spanish of a high school beginner.
He unleashed a torrent of rapid, colloquial, deeply native, flawless Spanish.
He told her with absolute precision that she was the most incompetent educator he had ever met.
He explained calmly that his grandmother possessed a firmer grasp of English semantics than she did.
He added smoothly that his grandmother had never once traveled beyond the borders of Guatemala.
Mrs. Gable’s patronizing smile instantly shattered into a million invisible pieces.
Her jaw tightened defensively as the unfamiliar syllables washed over her completely.
She opened her mouth, intending to loudly interrupt him.
David smoothly and instantly switched to French without skipping a single beat.
He adopted the crisp, rhythmic cadence he had learned in the snowy streets of Montreal.
He informed her respectfully that he was conversationally fluent in the language.
He explained that his mother taught romance languages to university students much smarter than her.
He spoke beautifully, letting the rolling ‘r’s fill the stunned, silent room.
Mrs. Gable’s face rapidly drained of all color, turning a sickly shade of grey.
She gripped the edge of her wooden desk desperately, as if she might fall over.
She looked entirely lost at sea, completely unmoored by his sudden, massive transformation.
David wasn’t quite finished yet.
He took a breath and switched seamlessly into Mandarin.
His complex tones were sharp, clear, and perfectly executed.
He stated proudly that he had studied the difficult language purely for the intellectual challenge.
He mentioned how beautiful he found the intricate, historical written characters.
The entire classroom was completely frozen in absolute, terrified shock.
Tyler’s jaw was literally hanging wide open, his eyes massive.
A girl in the front row dropped her yellow pencil onto the linoleum floor.
The sharp, echoing clatter was the only sound besides David’s commanding voice.
Not a single person dared to take a breath.
David abruptly stopped speaking Mandarin.
He switched flawlessly back to his native English.
He completely dropped any trace of the subtle, regional accent he usually carried.
His pronunciation was unbelievably crisp and purely mid-western.
His delivery was perfectly clean, easily rivaling any national news anchor.
“So that is exactly four languages, Mrs. Gable.”
He held up four fingers, displaying them prominently.
“That makes four.”
“You have spent three agonizing months aggressively correcting my pronunciation.”
“You treated me every single day like I didn’t even know how to formulate a basic thought.”
“Meanwhile, you only speak a single language.”
“Only one.”
He stood up slowly from his hard plastic chair.
He completely ignored the bell that was scheduled to ring in three minutes.
He grabbed his heavy backpack from the dusty floor.
He slung it casually over his shoulder.
He looked her dead in her terrified, wide, pale eyes.
“So, Mrs. Gable.”
“Who is actually teaching who here?”
Mrs. Gable stood completely frozen behind her massive wooden desk.
She looked exactly like a statue rapidly crumbling into useless dust.
She absolutely refused to make eye contact with him.
David turned around smoothly and calmly walked out of the classroom.
He left the heavy wooden door wide open behind him.
He stepped out into the empty, incredibly quiet school hallway.
He felt instantly lighter than he had in months.
The oppressive, heavy weight of her constant judgment had simply vanished into the air.
He realized with sudden clarity that he had never needed her validation in the first place.
His parents had taught him that extreme adaptability was a crucial tool for survival.
He finally understood that it was also an incredibly potent, beautiful weapon.
He walked out of the double school doors and into the freezing winter air.
He knew he would never have to shrink himself to fit into her tiny world ever again.
THE END
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Disclaimer
This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. If you would like to share your story, please send it to [email protected].
