(I have been reading since kindergarten, and have always had a high reading level. The head librarian sees me in the school library checking out books often, and knows how well I read. The head librarian isn’t in the library at the time I decide I want to read a ‘Sherlock Holmes’ story.)

Me: “Just this, thanks.”

Librarian: “Is that Sherlock Holmes?”

Me: “Uh huh. I really like mystery books.”

Librarian: “You’re only seven! This is too hard for you; why don’t you pick up one of the Dr. Seuss books over there?”

Me: “Um, I like those, too, but I really want to read this book.”

Librarian: “Oh, fine. The Goosebumps, then.”

Me: “Those are cool, but I really just want this one today.”

Librarian: “You can’t read that! It’s too hard for you!”

Me: “But I can read it; I totally can. I wouldn’t have picked it if I couldn’t.”

Librarian: “You shouldn’t lie to adults, you know.”

Me: “But-but I’m not lying.”

Librarian: “I’m going to put this book away while you go choose yourself something more appropriate for your reading level.”

Me: “But I can read that!”

(As we continue arguing, the head librarian wanders in with a cup of coffee.)

Head Librarian: “Oh, good morning [my name], here early for a book before class again?”

Me: “Uh huh, but she won’t let me check out the book I want.”

Head Librarian: “Which one is it?”

Me: “Sherlock Holmes.”

Head Librarian: “Oh, I know that one; you’ll like it! It’s a good one.”

Librarian: “This book is too difficult for her to read. This is for the sixth and seventh grade students!”

Head Librarian: “Are you serious, [librarian]? I see this girl in here every day; she tests at a high school reading level. I know better than to question her, and so should you. If she says she can read it, she can read it. People like you are the reason kids stop trying to read books at all.”

Librarian: “But it’s too difficult for a girl like her; she’s so small.” *looks at me* “When did you start reading, anyways? Not that long ago, I’m sure.”

Me: “Pre-elementary, my dear [librarian].”

(A first grader is admiring my rings.)

First Grader: “Are these very expensive?”

Me: “Not really.”

First Grader: “Did your boyfriend buy them for you?”

Me: “Nope, I bought them with my own money.”

First Grader: “When I grow up, and I have lots and lots of money, I’ll buy you a really expensive ring.”

Me: “Aww, thank y—”

First Grader: “…but you’ll probably be dead by then.”

(I’ve just fallen off of a set of monkey bars during lunch hour recess, and straight-armed my left arm into the ground. A friend comes over to aid me.)

Friend: “Are you okay?”

Me: *holding my left elbow with my right hand* “I don’t think so. I can’t bend my arm.”

Friend: “Let me see.”

(My friend gently tries to bend my arm manually, and I scream.)

Friend: “You’re right. I’ll help you to the nurse.”

(We’re stopped when we enter the school building by the teacher who’s monitoring the hallway during lunch.)

Teacher: “You can’t come back in. You’ve already used the bathroom this recess.”

Friend: “Mrs. [name], I think he’s really hurt his arm. It’s probably broken.”

Teacher: “Well, there’s no protruding bone, and the arm isn’t crooked. It’s probably just bruised. Let me see.”

(I offer her my arm, thinking she’s just going to look. She tries to bend my arm, but with more force than my friend did. I scream again.)

Teacher: *sighs* “Okay, you can go see the office.”

(The teacher sends my friend back to the playground. I go to the office.)

Secretary: “What do you need?”

Me: “I think I’ve broken my arm. I need to see the nurse.”

Secretary: “You can’t see her today. She’s at [other school]; she rotates between three schools. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

Me: “Can I call my mom, then? She works for my doctor, and will come get me.”

Secretary: *sighs* “We don’t need to do that. Let me see your arm.”

(She bends my arm quickly, eliciting my greatest scream yet.)

Secretary: *still doubtful* “Okay, I’ll call for the nurse. Have a seat in the clinic.”

(The nurse comes about 30 minutes later, and thankfully doesn’t manipulate my arm. She doesn’t believe it’s broken, but she authorizes my mom to come get me. At the doctor’s, the X-ray reveals that I have a unique fracture: my humerus has wedged into my ulna. He sets my arm in a half-cast and a sling, and estimates that I’ll be unable to use it until summer. The next school day, I take great pleasure in presenting the doctor’s note to the school secretary so that she can write up an official exemption from PE for the rest of the year.)

(I’m in first grade, and my class has just been given a presentation by a fire department representative on house safety.)

Representative: “…and I think that just about covers it! Does anyone have any questions?”

(The class says nothing.)

Representative: “Don’t be afraid! Ask anything you want!”

Me: “…If you’re really thirsty but also really need to go to the bathroom, what do you do?”

(I am tutoring a group of fourth and fifth graders. I’m female.)

Me: “Okay, guys. Just to let you know, I will not be here on Friday. I am taking the day off.”

Student #1: “What? You’d rather be somewhere else than here with us?”

Me: “Well, if you must know… it’s my anniversary on Friday.”

(The students of course loudly react. After shushing them, I explain a bit further, trying to be vague so I can have privacy.)

Me: “I’m not married. But it is the second anniversary of our first date.”

Student #2: “Does he live with you?”

Me: *finally deciding to bite the bullet* “No, she does not live with me.”

Student #3: “You have a girlfriend?”

Me: “Yes. I do. And we’re not going to talk about it anymore because it’s not important.”

(We go on with the activity for awhile.)

Student #4: “So…”

Me: “Yes, [Student #4]?”

Student #4: “Is your girlfriend a boy or a girl?”