In my freshman year of college, I take an Introduction To The Old Testament course to fulfill a general education requirement. I don’t recall how we got into this discussion, but somehow we get on the topic of how many Christians tend to use variations of “God has everything happen for a reason” when trying to comfort people and how most people don’t like hearing that.

Professor: “You know, I was on the receiving end of one of the worst variations of that I’ve ever heard. It was several years ago now. My first pregnancy ended in a miscarriage and I was obviously devastated about it. It also happened far enough along that everyone already knew I was pregnant. The first time I went back to church after it happened, this woman I had never spoken to before in my life walked up to me, and you know what she said? She said, ‘I’m sorry about your miscarriage, but it’s okay! God did it because he knew your baby would become a criminal!'”

There’s a pause as the whole class “ooh”s in sympathy.

Professor: “You know, I have never hit someone ever in my life, but that’s the closest I’ve ever come to changing that.”

Classmate: “That would have been too kind. I probably would have murdered her in front of the altar.”

When I was a freshman in college, I registered for a basic English 102 course that doubled as a humanities credit. I thought, “Great! Two birds one stone,” despite the professor’s online rating for this class being abysmal at best.

I have ADHD and dyslexia, so I have a hard time reading most times but especially handwritten stuff, even my own. I have an ADA allowance on file, meaning I get some permissions to allow me to take classes and function as normally as possible. These permissions include use of my tablet during class to write notes and about an hour longer on tests.

On the first day of class, the professor strolls in with the arrogance and snobbitude of someone who THINKS they’re getting tenured this year. He starts talking and going over the syllabus.

Professor: “There will be no phones, laptops, or technology of any kind in my class. You will write all your notes by hand.”

That isn’t going to work for me, so I raise my hand.

Me: “Can I talk to you privately about the rule?”

That goes over like a lead balloon and he starts getting snippy.

Professor: “Anything you need to talk with me about can be found in the syllabus.”

Me: “I do need to talk to you; it’s pretty important.”

Professor: “Just say it to the class. I don’t have time to take out to deal with whining of any kind.”

Okay, dude.

Me: “I’m dyslexic and need my tablet to do the notes and read the assignments, and my ADA permissions are on file and emailed to all my professors before class.”

Professor: “Yeah, I saw the email, but I don’t care. You can do the work just like everyone else. You’re not special even if you were in special ed.”

The class goes deadly quiet at that.

I’m absolutely shocked at his bold and completely hilarious lack of awareness and care for his job. I stare at him open-mouthed, and he thinks he’s won. He’s got this smug little face like I’ve just been told and there’re no other options or any way he’ll regret his behavior.

One of the girls in class — whom I’ve never met before — finally finds her voice and calls him out in his ableism and lack of decorum, but he cuts her off.

Professor: “If you don’t like my rules, you can drop the class.”

Classmate: “Okay.”

She pulls out her laptop and drops the class right in front of him, and, taking the cue from her, three other students and I do the same, and we all leave class together.

Classmate: “Do you want to go to the dean about this?”

Honestly, I was really shaken. I said yes and we went straight to the office of the dean of students and explained what happened, and we spoke to the ADA counselor. They took the girl’s statement and mine. They discovered that this professor had pulled this s*** for years but nobody wanted to get involved.

Six months later, I heard that not only had the professor not gotten tenured, but he was fired and blacklisted from teaching at the collegiate level.

I always hated playing rugby. Unfortunately, it was mandatory at my secondary school, unless I was prepared to take a hockey stick home every week, which wasn’t practical on a bike.

That was, until the first games afternoon of the year I turned sixteen. A games master quickly organised a game for the group I was in and cheerfully announced:

Games Master: “And anyone who argues with the ref will be sent on a run!”

That sounded a much better prospect, but I didn’t want to get into too much trouble. So, I trotted up to him.

Me: “Excuse me, sir. Did you mean what you said about people who argued with the ref?”

Games Master: “I don’t know. What did I say?”

Me: “You said people who argued with the ref would be sent on a run.”

Games Master: “Oh. I suppose I did.”

Me: “Please, sir, can I have an argument?”

He burst out laughing.

Games Master: “Go on, then.”

I hadn’t actually expected this to work, so I didn’t have anything prepared. I came up with something like, “I think rugby is the stupidest game I have ever played.”

I was sent on a run. And they never tried making me play rugby again.

In eighth grade, we have this science teacher who is known for being a bit eccentric. She is fairly relaxed usually, but often our classes get really rowdy and she gets upset. This is one of those days, and to try and control the class, she tells everyone that the next person who talks is getting expelled from class.

A few minutes pass in total silence — from our end, anyway. I — a good student, but really scatty and talkative, by no means innocent of talking in class — spend that time admiring my friend’s ruler, which has “Wind In The Willows” characters on it.

Then, it happens.

Me: “This is a cool ruler—” *gasps*

Yes, I was the ONE KID who got expelled that day — and for a totally innocuous comment! I expected my Mum to FLIP, but for once, she was really un-Mum-like and just laughed it off as me being my usual inattentive self.

In eighth grade, we had a really young English teacher. She looked and acted so young, a rumour spread across the class that she was eighteen, which, of course, was impossible, but hey, we were thirteen. What did we know? Predictably, all the boys developed huge crushes on her.

One day, we were in class and somebody was passing a note, and the teacher intercepted it. She took it from the person who had it, unfolded it, and read it out loud.

Teacher: “‘The teacher’s really hot, but she wears white socks.’”

Not missing a beat, and entirely deadpan, she turned to the class and asked:

Teacher: “What’s wrong with white socks?”