(I am around eight, and my cousin is about twelve. We go to a school that has adult supervision long before and after school in case parents need a babysitter; this is provided for free. We’re waiting on the playground after school. Out of boredom, we’ve been repeatedly leaning against the fence behind us and bouncing off it.)
Teacher: “Girls, that’s bad for the fence. Do you need me to find something for you to do?”
Cousin: “No.” *goes off and finds an activity*
Me: *thinking she means something fun* “Yes!”
Teacher: *disappointed* “Grab this broom and sweep bark chips off the pavement.”
(I’m dismayed that she’s giving me a punishment for boredom. Bark-chip duty is usually reserved for students who repeatedly cause trouble on the playground. After a minute or two…)
Teacher: “You don’t have to do that anymore, but I hope you learned your lesson to not talk back.”
(I legitimately did not understand what I’d done. I had zero grasp on sarcasm at the time, and even now I have a hard time with it. Plus, the concept of “talking back” made no sense to me. The punishment would have been a fair one if I had known what on earth I’d done wrong.)
(I’m a high school Spanish teacher.)
Student: “Finito!”
Me: “’Finito’ es italiano; no es español.”
Student: “Oy, vey!”
Me: “That’s Yiddish.”
Student: “¡Ay, dios mío! Are you happy now?”
(I’m a middle school teacher. For our novel study at the end of the year, I have students do vocabulary periodically throughout the book. I tell students that today we’ll be doing vocabulary.)
Student: “Vocabulary is for nerds.”
Me: “Without vocabulary, you wouldn’t talk, so I guess you’re a nerd.”
(I am a creative writing major, but because I changed my major from an English one fairly recently, I am still stuck in a seminar class for English majors and have to report my readings to that professor. The education majors are also in this particular seminar class. I have just finished reporting on research I am doing for a vampire novel I plan to write. My professor is a woman who loves dirty romance novels, as well.)
Professor: “Will there be sex in it?”
Me: “I don’t know. I’ll let the characters take me where they want to.”
Professor: *fake huffs* “You creative writing majors and your developing characters!” *turns to the next student to present; an education major* “Will there be sex in yours?”
Student: “Oh, God, I hope not!”
(This story takes place in the late nineties. I have a fairly sizeable collection of novelty pencils: patterns, holographic, Lisa Frank, etc. During one class, I have three out at once for some reason, and as I’m focused on writing something, I see a classmate’s hand inching towards one of them out of the corner of my eye.)
Me: “Don’t touch my pencils.”
Classmate: *shocked* “How did you know?!”
Me: “Peripheral vision?”
Classmate: “What?”
(For the rest of the class, he kept putting his hands where he thought I wouldn’t see, and was amazed every time I did.)
