At a parent-teacher conference when I was in first grade, my teacher told my mother that I would burn in Hell since I didn't believe in Jesus Christ.
At least, that's what my mother told me years later, when I was in high school or junior high.
That explained a lot. Such as why it had seemed as if my first grade teacher hated most of the class.
When I was in first grade, I hadn't even heard of Jesus Christ. I'm sure I never discussed him with the teacher. She must have been making assumptions about me based on my last name.
What did my mother do about it at the time?
Nothing. She felt powerless. She was afraid I'd be retaliated against if she complained. She didn't see any path that would make things better.
My mother waited to tell me so as not to traumatize me. I was already traumatized enough by that teacher. When I complained to my mother back then, my mother told me that the teacher was mean because she was a frustrated spinster. I thought that was an odd and uncharacteristically bitter comment, but it makes more sense now in light of what the teacher said at the parent-teacher conference.
By the time I was in high school, my mother began to push back when she saw injustices against me. It's possible she felt more comfortable with the high school's powers-that-be than with my grade school's principal, whom she didn't trust.
After I graduated from Ivy League schools and became a professor, I noticed that my colleagues refused to put up with bad behavior from their kids' teachers. They raised a fuss and got things changed. My parents' striving for upward mobility paid off, moving me into a socioeconomic class with higher expectations.
Nowadays, anyone can complain about anything on social media and get teachers in trouble, whether or not they deserve it.
To this day, thinking of my first grade teacher still conjures up visions of Satan and me amidst crackling flames.