Letter to Mr. Slim : Good Riddance to You and All Your Lessons

I never was much of a student in High School. Prone to day dreaming of my future as a writer, I suppose, I couldn't stand my History class, especially when it was taught by Mr. Slim.
Back when I went to school in the seventies, teachers followed a curriculum designed to boor students to tears, and make history confined to the corridors of dates, names and incidences. Mr Slim was no exception, and he conducted his class like a robot, and carefully pulled out a pile of notes from his briefcase and started to recite.
He pulled out dates and World War II incidences as though it happened centuries ago, rather than mere decades ago and I could care less whether some leader of the Allies forced his way through the German barriers, or even what was the significance of Vimy Ridge. There was no History Channel back then, and it must have been too novel at the time to bring retired members of the Canadian Army to class to conduct lectures outlining the realities of war.
Nothing stuck on me and it showed, especially in the results of my exam where my marks failed to both excite me and my History teacher. Nor did Mr. Slim appear that he cared.
He came to class each day, well dressed, and carefully opened his well cared for notes, which he proceed to recite from as though it was as significant as Mozart's music. Of course, now I realize the price that men and women paid for in the great Wars, and take away so much information from shows such as the History Channel, etc on television.
Although I must have been close to seventeen, and still undecided about my job ambitions, at one point, I did ponder to be a teacher. But after observing Mr. Slim, who must have been in his late fifties conduct his lectures in such a boring, distant manner, I clearly decided in my mind's eye not to be a teacher. He clearly seemed to be doing his job for the money, than for the real pleasure of encouraging young minds.
I like movies and whenever an opportunity came to see one, especially in school, my eyes immediately perked up. On this one afternoon, Mr. Slim put on a World War II film that showed a celebration of soldiers and women. It may have been a victory moment, and as the film neared its end, the black and white reel displaced young and happy men frolicking with young and willing women, who were of Japanese descent.
Mr. Slim suddenly interjected a remark to the effect that this display of white men and yellow women frolicking together was deemed to be disgusting, forbidden and downright madness. He spoke his mind that white men and yellow women should never get together for romantic reasons and each ethnic group deserves to socialize romantically among themselves. Although the exact wording of Mr. Slim may be off somewhat due to time, the general gist of what he had to say is exact.
It was then that I realized who he really was. Mr Slim: a racist.
At that time, this obedient, poor student wanted to walk out when my teacher waxed into his ugly discourse, but I said nothing. I remarked about Mr. Slim's outburst to my siblings, who also agreed that he was a racist, but nothing came of it. Until now.
So Mr. Slim, after all these years, you are finally outed.
And yes, Mr. Slim, you should have been replaced years ago by someone like Mr. Sidney Poitier.
It's too bad that for too long, years of young minds have been twisted by Mr. Slim's racist ideas.
And when I stepped out into the sunshine of the streets after finishing his class, it was no surprise that I encountered name-calling from young groups of racists, who probably had Mr. Slim as a History teacher.