I taught a student in a primary grade, and then I later moved to a new school nearby and taught two grades higher. One of my primary students was secretly one of my favorites, so I was happy to see her on the roster. Her parents? Not so happy. 

They asked for a conference with the principal and me to share not only their current concerns but things they had been begrudging for going on THREE YEARS.

Pop: “The coach at [Old School] was funny at morning drop-off — always made me smile. I manage a large team of people, and it’s important that I get to work with a positive attitude. This new coach doesn’t say anything — just waves me on through.”

Sorry that ensuring safe drop-offs in the car rider line doesn’t come with a stand-up routine.

Mom: “This teacher implied that my child’s cheerleader practices were too long in primary grade, and that was why she was tired.”

What I actually said when the child complained of being tired was, “Oh, did you have cheer practice? I know, my children had a lot of ballet classes when they were in school.”

Me: “Ma’am, my own daughters took ballet for years. I am a big supporter of after-school activities. How unfortunate that you didn’t come to me at the time; I could have cleared this up for you back then.”

This sort of complaint repeated several times.

Mom: “[Other Student] is weird. She’s just weird. I don’t like her being in class with my child.”

Ma’am, I would die before I ever agreed with this in public.

Pop: “There are bad kids in this school. In [Old School], when we went out to eat, we knew everyone in the restaurant. Here, we can go out and not know anybody. But these other kids… they’re just bad.” 

No, my administrator did not push back in any way whatsoever. [Old School]’s administrator was quite used to pushing back against entitled parents, but not [New School]’s administrator, who was frequently publicly upset that she did not get 100% approval ratings from parents. 

[Mom] called the school nurse to ask me to use the word “cheer” to the child because the child didn’t make the traveling elite cheer team — as in, while walking in the hallway to recess, “[Child], please save the cheer until we get to the playground.”

[Mom] complained that [Child] made fun of nail technicians’ accents, saying to us, “I wonder where she learned that?”

The parents would walk through the school hallways like they were literally Prom King and Queen.

By the end of my second year with her, [Child] was being actively excluded from the popular girls’ group in the classroom. (I did shut down the overtly mean comments.) By fifth grade, they were making it a point to exclude her in obvious ways by recreating “Mean Girls” in elementary school, e.g., on Pink Out Day, the Pink Squad of four wore matching outfits.

Not my grade monkeys, not my circus. 

Sometimes, you can just see the trainwreck of the future coming.

I work at an elementary school. I am doing yard duty and monitoring the playground during recess time one February morning. I notice that one of the third-graders has a group of first-graders and kindergartners gathered around her. She is telling them something, and they look upset.

This third-grader was from a notoriously badly-behaved family of kids. Her older siblings in sixth and eighth grades are suspended for cussing and being violent on a regular basis, and her younger sibling in kindergarten is a thief and not potty-trained. [Third-Grader] is the best-behaved of the bunch, but that isn’t saying much.

As I approach the group, [Third-Grader] abruptly stops talking, which confirms to me that she’s up to no good.

Me: “Why don’t you go play with kids your own age?”

The third-grader runs off. As soon as she’s gone, one of the first-graders turns to me. He looks on the verge of tears.

Me: “What was she telling you?”

First-Grader: “She said Santa’s not real. That’s not true, is it?”

I don’t want to lie to the kids, but I also don’t want to upset them further or spoil things for their parents. Thinking quickly, I reply.

Me: “Just because Santa’s never been to her house, that does not mean Santa isn’t real.”

The relieved kindergartners and first-graders ran off to play. They had no trouble believing that Santa had never gone to her house.

I work in a school. This was the school’s schedule for the last day before Christmas break.

• 12:30: Kids go home (early dismissal).
• 1:00-2:00: Staff holiday party.
• 2:00-4:00: Work in classrooms.

Me: “Could I leave when the kids are gone for a family event? I’ll take half a personal day.”

Principal: “Well, district policy is that you can’t take a personal day the day before a holiday break. I’ll have to get the superintendent’s approval first.”

Later, the principal got back to me.

Principal: “I’m sorry, but the superintendent says that since it’s a contracted day, you can’t leave early.”

At the start of the party:

Principal: “The superintendent just told me that everyone can leave early today! Go home after the party!”

Principal: *To me* “Now you can go to your family thing! What is it?”

Me: “A production of A Christmas Carol. But since you told me I couldn’t leave early today, they gave away my ticket.”

I missed something fun with the family because my boss’s boss wanted to make a big surprise about getting to leave early.

My maternal grandma, who lived with us, was seventy when I was born. She was in poor health, and I always remember her as an old woman with removable teeth prosthesis, always wearing a scarf on her head when outside and walking with a stick. So, of course, that was my idea of a grandma. Imagine my astonishment when a friend in preschool told me her Grandma would pick her up when she got out of work. Like, what? Grandmas don’t work; they’re retired!

But I wasn’t the only one with fixed ideas. In the early stages of elementary school, I talked in front of the class about my typical weekend. I said we’d go to our “weekend house”, which was actually my Mum’s birth house in a small village, with a big garden. We lived in a flat in a town.

The teacher corrected me.

Teacher: “You’re going to visit your grandma and grandpa.”

Many people in my school had grandparents in a village, living in houses, as opposed to the blocks of flats most of my classmates grew up in. Both of my grandpas died before I was born, and Grandma went to our “weekend house” with us, but the teacher didn’t like it. So, then I said:

Me: “We are going to [Village] and to visit our Grandma.”

This was technically true because we stopped on the way to see my paternal grandmother, who lived in another town — and in a block of flats, as well. But for the teacher, apparently, all grandmothers lived in villages, in houses with gardens.

I was born on the 11th of September, 2001. I’m English, so it’s never been a particularly evocative fact, and I’ve only ever met one person who was personally affected by the tragedy. When I was ten, I was in an afterschool club and overheard two teachers talking.

Teacher #1: “How long ago was 9/11 now?”

Teacher #2: “At least a decade, I think. I can’t remember exactly what year it was now.”

Teacher #1: “Surely not. I thought it was about five years.”

Me: “It was ten years ago — eleven in a few months.”

Teacher #1: *Scoffing* “How would you know? You’d barely remember.”

Me: “Because that’s my birthday, and I’m ten, so it has to be ten years.”

Teacher #1: “I really don’t think you’d know. It’s been five years.”

Me: “…but I’m not five.”

Teacher #1: “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Me: “…because 11th September 2001 is my birthday?”

Teacher #2: “…and it’s now April 2012?”

Teacher #1: “I think you’re both wrong. The maximum I would say is six.”

Teacher #2: “…Years aren’t subjective, [Teacher #1].”

Teacher #1: “How would she know what happened on her birthday?”

Teacher #2: “I assume because her parents mentioned it?”

Teacher #1: “Well, I think you’re wrong, and you shouldn’t lie for attention.”

With that, she flounced off. I looked at [Teacher #2], utterly baffled.

Teacher #2: “Don’t worry. I know you’re not making it up. Take this as proof that adults can be as wrong as anyone else.”

[Teacher #1] was nasty to me for the rest of the school year. I still can’t wrap my head around what her train of thought was.