When I was in elementary school, we went on a field trip to a historical pre-US fort. It was a long drive to the fort on the bus, and we were not very patient children. School started at 7:30 am and we were loaded onto the bus around 8:00 am.

When we got there around 10:00 am, it turned out that the school had forgotten to buy tickets for us, or even to let the fort know we were coming. One of our teachers stayed behind at the fort to negotiate with the staff while the school buses brought us to a McDonald’s with a Play Place.

Unfortunately, the McDonald’s manager saw a full busload of children descending upon the play place and said, “No way.” While the bus driver was trying to make the sharp turn into the parking lot, the manager knocked on the window of the bus and told the driver, in no uncertain terms, that we would not be permitted to play in the Play Place as there were more of us than their maximum safety capacity allowed.

We wound up driving around apparently aimlessly until we stopped at a park in the countryside and were let out of the bus. Only it turned out not to be a park, as a farmer arrived to tell the driver that it was private property, and we were to leave. We weren’t even given long enough to finish the packed lunches we’d broken out. We were ordered to eat them on the bus.

Now, at about 1:00 pm, out of snacks and still quite rambunctiously energetic with no outlet for our energy, we drove back to the fort to pick up the teacher who had been left behind. She had been unable to secure places for us at the fort. After that, we drove back to the school where we were dropped off only to head home.

The parents found out about what happened and tore the school administration a new one. Rather than learn their lesson, the school announced that, for an indefinite period of time, there would be no further field trips.

We never had another field trip as long as I was there, and after asking around at our reunion with some of the young parents who were once children I went to school alongside, I’ve learned that it was almost ten years after I graduated before that school started doing field trips again.

I worked as a ward assistant at a teaching veterinary hospital. Some of the vet students were incredibly book-smart but had never developed any common sense. Then, there was this student.

I was refilling the treatment trolleys in the open-plan treatment area while one of the vet students was cleaning up after a procedure. One of the residents came through making clicking, whistling, and just generally encouraging noises to the very large dog she was leading. 

Student: “Why are you whistling? It’s not a horse.”

Resident: “Oh, he’s blind.”

Student: “Ahhh! He can’t hear you.”

Years ago, I used to work at an art school for children. Part of my job was checking children in and confirming who would be picking them up. Needless to say, we were very strict about this part. While anyone could reach as far as my desk to drop off a child, we had a list as to who was allowed to do pick-ups, and anyone else required permission from the child’s guardians. For the most part, we didn’t have issues, but there was always someone who felt that they should be the exception.

One child stood out because they only had Grandma on their list, and I had come to know her quite well. This was until one day when the child was walked in by an unknown man.

Me: “Welcome, [Child]! Let’s get you signed in and through those doors. Your teacher is waiting.”

I turned to the man.

Me: “Is [Grandma] coming for pick-up?”

Man: “No, I am. I’m their dad.”

Me: “Fantastic! Can I please get your name and number so I can call [Grandma] to confirm this?”

Man: “What? I don’t need permission; I’m the dad.”

Me: “Yes, sir, I understand. However, we still need to call [Grandma].”

Man: “They look just like me! Why do I need permission?”

Me: “Sir, please. I understand your feelings, and I am not denying you are their father. This is standard procedure. You are not on the authorized list, and I cannot let your child leave this building without permission from the guardian.”

Man: “…oh.”

With that, he gave me his full information and showed me his ID, appearing much more glum. I didn’t handle calling [Grandma] or pick-up, but I assumed it went well.

The next time I saw the child, [Grandma] was bringing them in. I signed them in quickly and sent them back, while [Grandma] stood in front of me.

Grandma: “Were you the one who told their dad he couldn’t just leave with them?”

Me: “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry for any inconvenience; I hadn’t seen him before.”

Grandma: “Oh, no, honey, I wanted to thank you. That’s my son. He just came back after years of me raising my grandbaby and has been trying to immediately take full control. I kept telling him to slow down, but he wouldn’t listen. That was before he came here. You reminding him that he wasn’t the guardian really straightened him out. He’s listening to me now and actually learning to be a parent.”

The father was added to the list, and from then on, he was much more respectful and seemed like a great dad. His child had always been well taken care of before, but I could tell how much happier they were because of him being around. I don’t know what was happening in his life, and it is not my place to judge; I am just so grateful to have been a part of bringing this family back together. Even all these years later, I tear up thinking about it.

When I was in high school, in the 1980s, we had a “homeroom” class once every two weeks. Homeroom was for announcements, for voting for class president, and generally for whatever.

The teacher let us vote on what to do. One girl in my homeroom proposed that we take the first fifteen minutes of every homeroom for prayer. The proposal passed by a narrow majority.

As an atheist, I didn’t care to pray, so I just quietly did my homework during this time. This lasted until someone complained that it gave me an “unfair advantage” to be doing homework instead of praying during prayer time.

So, I started putting on my Walkman and listening to a tape. I got called on this even more quickly. Mandatory prayer time was for prayer.

Me: “Well, I don’t pray. I’m an atheist.”

The girl who proposed prayer time argued with me.

Girl: “No. You’ve gotta pray. This is prayer time. The Jewish kids are praying.”

Me: “The sanctity of all religions is protected in the constitution.”

Girl: “Atheism isn’t a religion.”

Me: “Uh… yes, it is.”

Girl: “If atheism is a religion, then ‘off’ is a TV channel.”

Me: “Uh…”

Girl: “If atheism is a religion, ‘bald’ is a hair color.”

Me: “But—”

Girl: “If atheism is a religion, then ‘yes, please’ is a sex.”

Me: “I always put—” 

Girl: “If atheism is a religion, Black is a color.”

Me: “It is…”

Girl: “If atheism is a religion, then ‘empty’ is a flavor.”

Me: “Fine. Fine, I’ll pray.” 

I clasped my hands in front of myself.

Me: “Oh, holy Satan…”

That’s as far as I got. She hit me. Right in the face. It was the first time I’d ever been hit, and I did not enjoy the experience at all. I do not recommend being punched in the face to anybody. 

I do think the reason I remember the preceding exchange so clearly was from being hit in the face, however.

The teacher intervened at this point, dragging [Girl] off of me and sending both of us to the principal’s office. I was suspended for a day; she was suspended for three days.

When we got back, we learned that mandatory prayer time had been canceled, and there was no further mention of it from anyone.

Phone etiquette and cultural varieties aren’t easy. If you are an immigrant child and mostly only hear your parents on the phone with friends and family, it can be quite difficult to grasp proper phone etiquette for the country you’re living in now.

At my work, we had a phone the students could use in the kitchenette next to the teachers’ lounge, but you needed to enter a code to call outside of the school network. Thus, a teacher always had to enter a code before the student could use the phone.

Next to the phone was the only computer available to us teachers, and it could be annoying to be interrupted by someone having to call if you were in a time crunch to finish printing the exam that would start in thirty minutes and you had to rush downstairs to the copy machine in between.

I was writing some minor weekly test when [Student] asked to use the phone. I knew that he was late finishing a term-long assignment, and one of the things he had left to do was to visit a local company and describe it. He was far from the only one, and the teacher responsible was getting antsy.

[Student] called the company he had selected after I entered the code and told me I could continue to work; he didn’t mind if I heard the conversation. He was very blunt and rushed on the phone, almost incomprehensible, and the receptionist refused to have him visit.

I saved and closed my document and sat down with [Student] at the kitchen table as we talked about his phone call. He knew it hadn’t been good, but he had no idea how it could improve.

Me: “Let’s try roleplaying. I worked a summer as a phone operator, so I can play the receptionist. You can explain to me what you want.”

He improved with each attempt, but after ten minutes, we both had to leave for class.

As soon as recess hit, [Student] was back for a new round of roleplaying.

The next day, he returned to try his luck again on the phone.

Me: “Should I leave you alone?”

He gave this little cry as he grabbed my hand and plonked me down on the chair closest to the phone. During the call, he wouldn’t let go of my hand.

And this time went much better. He presented himself and his project quickly and succinctly and got an appointment.

The following day, [Student]’s best friend asked me if we could roleplay his phone call. One of the main reasons that both had waited so long to make those calls was that they knew they’d flub it. Apparently, neither of them had thought to ask for help.

We practised for a few recesses, and then I listened in on [Best Friend]’s call per his request. He did great. (That was unsurprising; he runs a major corporation these days. He’s a quick learner with a great drive.)

The others who had procrastinated all came one by one and asked to roleplay and then have me listen in on their conversations. They were all immigrants, and I don’t think it was a coincidence or that immigrants were procrastinating in general. They knew that their phone etiquette wasn’t up to Swedish corporate standards and were scared.

And sure, it wasn’t part of my job to teach them phone etiquette. I wasn’t actually the teacher of any of them. But it took maybe an hour and a half in total to assist them all and help them finish their projects — and gain new phone skills!