Sheeran

Many years ago, we went for an early afternoon pint in a famous pub in Galway. We had a few shopping bags with us, which legitimised us, made it okay for us to be having a swift one in between the middle-class pursuits of spending money on overpriced clothes and, later on, on overpriced food. 

There was a small group of people at the table next to us, who were very definitely the Wrong Sort. Three men. Too loud. Cider. Obviously had been there for a while. Two of them left suddenly, knocking over a stool and creating a ruckus. The third fella decided he wanted to stay for a chat. I stiffened up, apprehensive and unwelcoming, wishing he had followed his boyos into the street to go and mess up someone else's afternoon. But he started to tell a story, and I found myself being drawn in. 
He described his school days, where he had sat in the classroom, the name of his teacher. He told us that he felt shy and awkward all the time. 

He described how, any time he tried to answer a question, his teacher would say to him, "Put your hand down Sheeran. You're wrong."


I think about this a lot.
About how many of us are told, verbally or otherwise, to put our hands down.