Something similar to this story happened to me in fifth grade. Two smart students and I got to take a pre-test for every math unit, and if we got above 95%, we could skip the lesson and instead play on the teacher’s fairly fancy (at the time) computer, mostly on typing games. (I was probably not as smart as they were, but my older siblings had taught me their math to help themselves retain it.)

This was great fun because the following year, my middle school put us all in a typing class with the stated goal of getting us up to 30 WPM.

I was already at 60 WPM. So, again, I got to play.

Related:
Slow Down, Whiz-Kid; The Computer Can’t Handle It!

When I was in elementary school *mumble* decades ago, my mom joined a kind of mom’s club that the school had. I don’t remember a lot of it, other than that they would have a Friday Popcorn Day for kids and ran a holiday “store” where kids could buy small gifts to give to their families. They would also have whistles and be playground monitors to help herd kids inside.

Most of the school student body knew the moms in this club, and it was no secret that “[My Name]’s Mom Is Really Nice!” (I heard this a lot growing up.)

One young girl, [Bully], was taught some really poor ideas by her parents. She used the fact that she wasn’t white to throw the race card around and get out of anything, which meant that she rarely got detention despite being a little terror. She would deface school property with Sharpies, bully other kids, refuse to behave in class, and go running to her mommy if someone with a spine put her in detention.

Just a few weeks into the next school year, the brown stuff hit the fan when she went too far. [Bully] got in trouble for deliberately throwing a Nerf ball and hitting fellow students in the head with it. She then ran to the school administration with a story that our new teacher had gotten her alone and touched her inappropriately.

Of course, this launched an investigation and caused a scandal. The teacher was, of course, innocent. But investigations like these were career-enders, especially since security cameras and the like were uncommon in those days. The teacher decided to retire, despite my mom being a witness and testifying in her favor. She was not found guilty, thankfully, but it still meant that my whole class ended up losing her as our teacher.

There were unexpected consequences for [Bully], though. While I wasn’t very aware of the legal aspect, I was aware that the entire Mom’s Club became coldly polite to [Bully]. And she noticed. So, she decided to confront my mom one Friday with a bunch of her friends with her. It was, of course, also in front of a lot of other fellow students who were there for the popcorn.

Bully: *To my mom* “Mrs. [Last Name], why don’t you like me anymore?”

Mom: “Because you’re not a nice person, [Bully].”

Bully: *Shocked* “Yes, I am! I’m nice!”

Mom: “You lied about Mrs. [Teacher] touching you. Nice people don’t lie like that and get other people hurt.”

Bully: “I didn’t lie!”

Mom: “[Bully], I was right there next to you on the playground when you bragged to your friends about it. You said, ‘I can do whatever I want, and if I get in trouble, I can just get them in trouble like Mrs. [Teacher]. My mom told me how to do it: I just have to lie about her touching me. And now that she’s gone, they all know that I can do it to anyone else I want.’ You did lie, and you were proud of getting her in trouble. Nice people don’t do that.”

[Bully] went very quiet.

Mom: “Now, do you want to get popcorn or not?”

[Bully] quietly accepted the popcorn and walked away.

Of course, this conversation happened in front of a lot of kids, many of whom [Bully] had made miserable, so of course, it spread very quickly through the student body.

[Bully] got very quiet and didn’t pick on kids anymore because now they had ammo to fire back: “If the Really Nice Mom doesn’t like you, then you did something REALLY bad.” She left the school soon after that. 

It was a harsh lesson for her, and I honestly hope she grew up to be a better person and never tried that tactic again.

I work at a chain retailer. Every few weeks, we get a call like this. 

Me: “Hello?”

Automated Message: “Hello. This is [Elementary School] reaching out regarding [Boy]. Your child was absent from school today. If you believe this was a mistake, please contact [Elementary School] at [phone number].”

I go around asking my coworkers — it’s always a skeleton crew, so it doesn’t take long — but no one has a child by that name, and no one knows of a coworker having a child by that name. After several of these calls, I write the number down and call the school back.

Secretary: “[Elementary School], this is [Secretary].”

Me: “Hi. I think there’s an error in your automated system. It keeps dialing [Store] to say that [Boy] isn’t in school.”

Secretary: “What’s the number?”

Me: “[Phone number].”

Secretary: “Yes, that’s the number we have for [Boy]’s mother, [Woman]. Is this his mother calling?”

Me: “No, I’m calling from [Store] at [phone number] to tell you that you have the wrong number in the system.”

Secretary: “No, that’s her home phone, sweetheart.”

Me: “No… it’s our business line. You can Google [Store] and see it.”

Secretary: “Well, that’s the only contact number we have for her.”

Me: “Why not ask [Boy] to verify the number? Or send a letter home or something?”

Secretary: “Ma’am. I do not have time for these games. If you do not have a child at this school, it really is none of your business.”

Me: “Except that you’re basically saying you don’t care to verify if his mom knows where he is.”

She hangs up on me.

I do a search on Facebook for the woman’s name. There are only two with that name in the area, and only one has an elementary-age boy in their profile picture, so I take a shot. 

Me: “Hi. I know this is random, but [Elementary School] keeps calling [Store] to say that [Boy] is absent from school. I just want to reach out and let you know they don’t have your number on file for your son. I spoke with the secretary, and she didn’t seem to care. Anyway, sorry for the intrusion.”

Woman: “I thought something was off. I haven’t had a call all year, and he’s been sick a lot. What’s the store number?”

Me: “[Phone number].”

Woman: “Oh, well, that would be it. My number is the same, but two digits are reversed. Thank you for telling me!”

The calls stopped, so I assume they got the number sorted out. I do hope someone talked to the secretary about her flippant attitude with regard to the children at that school.

A long time ago, in the faraway year of 1999, I was a young eleven-year-old boy finishing my last year of elementary school. Right before my birthday (in May), my parents called the family together for a meeting. They told us my mom had gotten a new job and we would need to move. We weren’t moving too far away, only about an hour, but that still meant moving away from my friends and going to a completely different middle school than the one I thought I’d be going to.

Elementary school wrapped up, and we moved to our new house in early July. In August, my parents and I got to take a tour of the school and meet the principal and some of the teachers. That was when we learned that there weren’t any buses that passed our new neighborhood. It was actually close to the school, so that meant I would be walking to and from school every day. My parents weren’t too thrilled about this, but it was only a fifteen- twenty-minute walk, and there was a path, so they came around on the idea pretty quickly.

At the time, both of my parents worked full-time, five days a week. My mom worked Monday through Friday, and my dad worked Monday through Thursday and Saturday. Since my older sister was away in college full-time and they didn’t trust my brother and me alone, my parents found a babysitter to be there when my brother and I got home and watch us until my parents got home. (My brother was two years younger than me and in the local elementary school.)

The school year started, and in early September, we got a MASSIVE heatwave that reached highs of like ninety-six degrees for a couple of days. The middle school was an old building and most of it was not air-conditioned. I only had two classes that had AC in the classroom throughout the day. At the end of those days, I was tired and not in any mood to walk an additional twenty minutes in the heat before getting home, so I used vending machine snack money to call the babysitter from the payphone (cell phones were definitely not used by kids in those days). The babysitter, thinking he was just not letting me suffer in the heat, came to pick me up, and I would do some homework before “Batman Beyond” and “Pokémon” came on.

I did try to call home two more times over the next two weeks when it was hot. The second time, I got the sitter again. The third time I called was on a Friday. My dad answered. He was NOT happy with me.

Dad: “It’s not that hot! It’s only eighty-five today. You shouldn’t call the sitter away from the house. You have to start growing up. Walk home, and we will talk more when you get here.”

So, I walked home. I got a lecture and was told to not call the sitter again to be picked up. I said okay and told Dad I wouldn’t call the sitter or him again to be picked up.

Two weeks later, at the end of September, a hurricane passed through the area. Halfway through the day at school, it REALLY started coming down. It got so bad that they let us out of school a half-hour early — like that was gonna save us. By this time, though, a lot of roads were flooding and the line for pay phones was LONG. I remembered what my dad had told me a couple of weeks before that, so I walked home.

It took me almost thirty minutes to walk home from school that day, and I was DRENCHED by the time I got home. The rain was coming down so hard that I couldn’t see more than five feet in front of me. The roads were so flooded that the only way to drive in was with a car that had four-wheel drive.

Mom got out of work early due to the storm, so when I got home, both of my parents were there panicking because they hadn’t heard from either the school or me. I just walked in through our garage, soaking wet, and said:

Me: “Hi, Mom! Hi, Dad! I’m home!”

After they got over the initial shock and relief of seeing me home, my parents and I had this conversation.

Mom: “How did you get home?!”

Me: “I walked.”

Mom: “Why?!”

Me: “Dad told me to.”

Mom: “When?! We didn’t get any calls from you or the school today!”

Me: “Well, a couple of weeks ago, I called the sitter a few times and asked for a ride home since it was hot. The last time I called, I got Dad. He told me I had to just walk home from now on and not call for a ride again.”

Dad: “I implied that there could be exceptions.”

Me: “You didn’t say that.”

Mom turned on Dad and just told me to dry myself off and put my wet clothes in the dryer. As I was drying myself off, I could hear them arguing. It was louder than the rain! When I was done and put my clothes in the dryer, my parents talked to me and told me I was allowed to call home but ONLY for emergencies.

The next day, Saturday, my dad took me out to Blockbuster, and I was told I could rent up to five movies for myself! He also paid for pizza that night, and I got a whole pepperoni pizza for myself. That pizza lasted for two days, and no one else was allowed to touch it.

Dad never lived that down. Good times!

In the late 1950s, I was in the fifth grade. I wasn’t particularly fond of my teacher. She was very curt when talking to us, and she had a couple of rules that we thought were stupid. One rule was overthrown by the principal after [Classmate #1]’s mother complained.

That rule was that no one could use the restroom during class; we had to wait until recess. That was until [Classmate #1] asked to go and was refused. She sat in her chair and wet her pants. Thankfully, no one laughed, as kids would usually do at that age. We later found out that [Classmate #1] had a bladder problem, and because her mother complained to the principal, the rule was gone. But that’s not my story, just a lead-in to [Teacher]’s personality and methods.

On Fridays, we had spelling tests. If you got all twenty words correct, you got to come up to the front during the last thirty minutes of school for a Spell Down.

After [Teacher] gave us the words, we traded papers with the kids across the aisle and graded each other’s papers. [Teacher] called out each name, and the grader would give the number of correct words spelled.

[Classmate #2] gave my results as twenty correct words — all of them.

That particular Friday, a student was celebrating a birthday and had brought treats for everyone, candy bars, which were handed out after all grades were called out.

Then, [Teacher] called out the names of everyone who had gotten all twenty words correct to come up for the Spell Down. She didn’t call my name. I raised my hand.

Me: “I got a perfect paper; I should be up front, too.”

Teacher: “You missed one, according to my grade book.”

I prided myself in spelling and wasn’t about to let it go, so I trudged up to her desk with my paper in hand and showed her the perfect score. She wouldn’t back down.

Me: “[Classmate #2], tell her I got them all correct.”

Classmate #2: “He did, Miss [Teacher].”

Teacher: “You missed one, and because you argued with me, you will go stand in the corner and eat your candy bar while these kids have the Spell Down.”

My lack of fondness for her grew to nearly hating that woman, and rightfully so; for the rest of the school year, she was nasty to me.