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 a small child, I had very bad handwriting. (I still do.) My printing was barely legible, so long as I wasn’t excited, but my cursive was a muddy mess. My teacher despaired of teaching me to write better.

One day, while I was taking after-school remedial lessons for my writing, my teacher said:

Teacher: “[My Name], with handwriting as bad as yours, the only thing you’ll be able to be when you grow up is a doctor.”

I did not become a doctor. I became a typist.

Back in high school, I remember learning to make a circuit with wires, a battery, and a tiny lightbulb. The really smart kids also added a switch and learned how it connected and disconnected the circuit.

Present day, my fourteen-year-old turns to me and asks.

Kid: “Do you want to see my homework?”

Me: “Sure.”

They pull out all these wires and three little coloured lights — red, yellow, and green — and proceed to construct something. They’re connecting alligator clips and troubleshooting which bulbs need to be replaced. Finally, they have the whole thing put together.

Me: “Is this for an electrical class or something?”

Kid: “No. It’s for coding.”

And then they plug it into their computer and open up a program they wrote. I stare in wonder as the lights flash on and off. Red. Green. Yellow.

Kid: “That’s not right; these two are mixed up.”

They then reassemble it so they light up red, then yellow, and then green, muttering to themself as they go.

Me: “Hey, even with the signals being switched, that is still really impressive.”

Kid: “What? I haven’t started yet. This program just tests that I wired it properly. Here is my coding homework.”

And then the lights started flashing in a pattern with alternating speeds. I stood there with my mind blown, remembering my school days with the lightbulb, battery, and switch.

Kids these days.

I was a new teacher at a middle school and was trying hard to balance work, home, and young children. I never did “homework” (the rest of my teaching duties) until my children were in bed. Then, I would routinely stay up until midnight refining lesson plans, grading papers, and scoring tests.

One morning, after being up most of the night with a fussy child, I was exhausted. I had a planning period for first period, so I put my head down on my desk “just for a minute” and promptly fell asleep. It was an open-classroom school, so my principal wandered in, observed me for a minute, and then put his hand on my shoulder.

Principal: “Go home.”

Me: *Protesting* “I’m fine!”

Principal: “You look exhausted, and you need rest. I will handle things here.”

I will never forget him for that kind gesture, and I have tried to have the same compassion for my students.

One day, during a high school sports practice, my teammates and I got on the topic of our local Major League Baseball team. Our coach overheard us.

Coach: “When I was younger, I worked the concessions stand at the ballpark. Let me tell you: don’t ever get a hot dog before the fourth inning. That’s how long it would usually take to use up the hot dogs from the previous game.”

Me: “What if it’s the first game of the season?”

Coach: *In the exact same tone as before* “Let me tell you: don’t ever get a hot dog before the fourth inning.”