Lack Of Empathy Trumps Anxiety… Or Reality

, , , , , , | Learning | August 4, 2020

We all have that one teacher: the teacher that is completely horrible, has no empathy for your situation, and just does everything to make your life a living Hell. I had one of those. 

She was the type of teacher who would assign a lot of homework every day. It didn’t matter if it was the first day of school or the day before leaving for Thanksgiving break, Christmas vacation, or Easter vacation. Not only that, but we all also had huge projects to do every month. Papier-mâché a planet, create a dragon for Chinese new year, even a complete project of one of the fifty states. She also made plays that we would have to perform on top of that.

The worst part was that she would assign the homework and then teach us about it the next day, so we had to figure it out before we were actually taught it.

I was a special needs student, so I was only supposed to have a set amount of homework every night. She still expected me to do all of it, no ifs, ands, or buts. If I didn’t, I would still have to do it the next day for one letter grade less. My parents complained; she didn’t care. Cue anxiety attacks.

The last straw came in the second week of June. We were cleaning out our desks one Friday when she announced that she had tonight’s homework: two sheets of English, a sheet of math, and a sheet of science.

That’s right; she assigned homework on the last day of school. And once again, it was stuff we hadn’t even learned yet. Also, we had already turned in our textbooks the previous day so we were up a creek without a paddle.

Here’s another thing. We were at an American elementary school on a US Air Force Base in England. Half the class had a parent who was getting transferred either to another duty station internationally or back in the United States. They couldn’t turn the work in because they weren’t going to be there. She said we couldn’t mail it; we had to physically hand it in.

When we students mentioned to her that there was no real way for them to hand the work to her, she said, “I don’t care. Turn it in on the first day of fifth grade, or I’m not passing you. You’ll repeat the fourth grade again.“ Our pleas fell on deaf ears. 

Since it was a half-day on the last day of school, I mentioned this to my mom and she and I bolted back to the school to complain to the principal. It turned out that no less than ten other parents were already there, including my best friend’s mom and my crush’s dad. 

My mum had the loudest voice there, saying that I have had high anxiety the entire year because of the amount of work she forced on me even though I wasn’t supposed to have it. I had never seen her so pissed off at anyone that wasn’t either me or my two older brothers. 

We had just gotten home when we received a phone call from the principal. He told us that we didn’t have to do the homework and that the teacher would be dealt with accordingly. Hearing that, I was so relieved that I didn’t have to do any summer homework.

When I showed up the first day of fifth grade, the principal came up to me and told me that our teacher was removed. He apologized for the amount of stress I had the previous school year, and he made sure that I had one of the more popular fifth-grade teachers who knew how I was. 

My fifth-grade year went a h*** of a lot better than my fourth-grade one.

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I Shouldn’t Have To Teller You

, , , , , | Right | August 4, 2020

I work for a local credit union, and we generally have friendly relationships with all of the other local credit unions, as we tend to see each other at training and chamber events.

I am working on a Saturday, answering phones, when a teller from another credit union calls to verify a cashier’s check. It is standard procedure that those are only verified Monday through Friday by our accounting department. 

Me: “Thank you for calling [Credit Union]; how may I help you?”

Teller: “Yes, I need to verify… I guess you would call this a bank check?”

Me: “A cashier’s check? Unfortunately, those are verified by our accounting department on Monday through Friday.”

Teller: “You’re kidding? Let me have your automated system.”

Me: “Our automated system does not verify cashier’s checks. That can only be done by our accounting department.”

Teller: “That is so stupid!

Me: *Slightly shocked* “Well, [Teller], you know that alerts have been going out recently from the local police department about stolen cashier’s checks from credit unions. This is all to prevent fraud.”

Teller: “MANAGER. NOW. How dare you accuse me of fraud?! You know what? I don’t have time for this. I’ll tell our member and yours that you refused to help me. I hope you get fired.” *Click*

I sent a companywide email out explaining what happened, and a few minutes later, I got a phone call from our CEO asking for more details. It turned out that our CEO is great friends and golf buddies with the CEO of the other credit union. They were on the golf course together when our CEO got the email. He mentioned the teller’s rudeness to the other CEO, who wanted to speak to his employee right away. She was a new hire, and her credit union has the exact same policy as ours. From what I hear, she got an earful about her rudeness.

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This Kid Is A Little Terrier

, , , | Right | August 3, 2020

I work at a boarding kennel looking after dogs while their owners are away. It’s been a particularly busy day where the reception bell has not stopped ringing to alert me to a new customer either collecting or dropping off their dog while I try and race around in between exercising, cleaning, and feeding the dogs currently in our care.

I’ve just handed one dog over to its owner and I turn around to see a young boy march straight through the “staff only” door at the back of reception. I quickly give chase while his mother is apparently oblivious to the fact her crotch-goblin has wandered off.

Me: “Excuse me, can you go back to your mum in reception, please? This area is staff only.”

Boy: “I just want to say hello.”

He starts yelling, “Hello!” at every dog he sees.

Me: “Sorry, but you can’t be back here; you need to go back to reception now.”

Boy: “I’m saying hello.”

I am internally screaming and trying to body block him, knowing that further down this path is a dog that cannot be trusted.

Me: “All right, you’ve said hello; now go back to your mother. This area is staff only!”

Back in reception, the boy’s mother didn’t even seem to notice he’d been gone. In fairness to her, he was definitely old enough to read “staff only” and just chose to be a brat instead, but I really do not want to get into trouble or potentially lose my job because some brat hasn’t been taught to behave and gets bitten.

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We Wouldn’t Take Your ID, Either

, , , , | Learning | August 2, 2020

I’m in college. One of my classmates attracts the teacher’s attention.

Classmate #1: “Sir, could I leave five minutes early today? My bus leaves at [time] and I don’t want to miss it.”

Classmate #2: “There are four buses an hour. Just catch one of the other ones.”

Classmate #1: “Yes, but only that one is run by [Company]. If I catch one of the others, I might run into the driver I accidentally called a fat pie-munching b*****d yesterday.”

Classmate #3: “Oh, so you meant to say, ‘Twenty-five pence, please,’ and you accidentally said, ‘Ah, you fat pie-munching b*****d’?”

Classmate #1: “No, he wouldn’t accept my student ID and said it was fake, and eventually, I said, ‘You fat pie-munching b*****d!’ and stormed off.”

Everyone, including the teacher, simply fell silent and stared.

He didn’t get to leave early.

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It’s Not Her Party, But She’ll Cry If She Wants To

, , , , | Related | August 1, 2020

My daughter is of kindergarten age and is invited to a birthday party. If you’ve been there, you know what nightmare they are. There are about twenty kids from the classroom, plus their parents and siblings, plus the birthday kid’s relatives and family friends. Cue over three hours of barely controlled chaos.

Needless to say, when it’s finally time to cut the cake, the ladies in charge of doing so are taking no nonsense: they hack away at the cake, slam the pieces on plates, and pass them to the nearest person that has a pair of serviceable hands.

My daughter, however, has picked just this moment to get finicky.

Daughter: “I want the corner piece with the candy flower.”

Me: “We can try, but the ladies are busy. Don’t be mad, okay?”

Unfortunately, she’s given a regular piece, instead. Tired and upset from the long afternoon, she decides to throw a fit. She starts crying so loudly, it catches the attention of the cake-cutting lady.

Cake Lady: “Oh, poor dear. What happened?”

Me: “She was after the corner piece.”

Cake Lady: “Oh, this one? That’s all right.”

Instead of swapping plates, the lady picked up the candy flower and planted it onto the piece on my daughter’s plate… sending her into another fit. I tried to console her but it was no use; she was holding her plate with white-knuckled hands, bawling uncontrollably at the injustice of it all.

Then, a passing toddler picked up the candy flower from her piece of cake, stuffed it in her mouth happily, and kept going. My daughter was so affronted she could barely breathe. There was nothing left to do at this point but laugh. I wish I’d had my camera ready.

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