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.

This story reminded me of several similar incidents with my mom. She was a preschool teacher at a school that also had a before/after program. Whenever the kids asked her how old she was, she would always answer, “Twenty-nine.”

Incident #1, which repeated pretty much annually:

School Owner: “Today is Mrs. [Mom]’s birthday!”

Kids: “Happy birthday, Mrs. [Mom]!”

Kid #1: “You’re thirty now!”

Mom: “No, I’m not. I’m twenty-nine!”

Kid #1: “But you were twenty-nine yesterday, so you’re thirty today!”

Mom: “I am not thirty!”

Kid #1: “So, how old are you?”

Mom: “I’m twenty-nine.”

Kid #1: *Exasperated* “Mrs. [Mom], you can’t be twenty-nine forever.”

Mom: “Watch me.”

Incident #2: a student was meeting my younger brother for the first time.

Kid #2: “You’re Mrs. [Mom]’s son?”

Brother: “Yep.”

Kid #2: “How old are you?”

Brother: “Twenty.”

Kid #2: “How old is Mrs. [Mom]?”

Brother: “Old enough to be my mom.”

Incident #3: I went in on my birthday five years ago.

School Owner: “Happy birthday, [My Name]!”

Me: “Thank you!”

Kid #3: “Is it really your birthday?”

Me: “Yep.”

The kid wasn’t really looking at me, still playing with toys.

Kid #3: “How old are you?”

Me: “Twenty-nine.”

The kid stopped dead, looked up at me, and GLARED. Seriously, if looks could kill, I would have been a pile of ash.

I fought the urge to laugh.

Me: “No, I’m really twenty-nine. I was born in 1989. You can do the math if you don’t believe me.”

Kid #3: *Suspiciously* “Are you going to be twenty-nine next year, too?”

Me: “No, I’m going to be thirty.”

Mom: *Sighs dramatically* “Fine. I guess I’ll cop to being thirty-nine…”

Kid #3: “MRS. [MOM]!”

Related:
My Mom Has Been Forty-Nine For Decades

I’m a school librarian. Each class visits me once a week. When class is done, I instruct them how to line up.

Me: “When Mr. [My Name] calls your number, go to the door. One, two, three…”

Student: “Four, five, six!”

Me: “Let me count, please. Four, five, six…”

Student: “Seven, eight, nine!”

Me: “Please stop counting; that’s my job. Seven, eight, nine…”

Student: “Ten, eleven, twelve!”

Me: “How many times do I have to tell you, [Student]? You don’t count! You don’t count!”

I looked up to see his teacher standing in the door, looking concerned.

One day when I was in elementary school, I was sitting in the school library on the computer writing a report for class, and a middle-aged white lady I had never met came and sat next to me. Imagine the “I’m sitting on a tiny chair to speak to a child” pose.

I’m autistic. I continued working, seeing no reason to address the woman and hoping she would go away.

Woman: “Hey, sweetpea, you have to take off your hat. It’s against school rules.”

Me: “I’m not wearing a hat.”

I continued trying to focus on my report. I was wearing a headscarf. I’m white also; it was not a religious headscarf. It was, however, important to me because my hair was very greasy, matted, and full of dandruff. I was already bullied enough as it was. My hair was so thick and curly, and my divorced parents neglected me.

But it was the 1990s, and dollar stores sold cute headscarves. Mine was an orange and green snakeskin print.

The woman grabbed my scarf, but I held it to my head and looked over at her in shock.

Me: “This is a scarf. It’s basically a headband.”

Woman: “All head coverings are hats—”

Me: *Interrupting* “No, that’s not true.”

Woman: “Look, hun, if you wouldn’t wear it in church, don’t wear it to school. You wouldn’t wear a hat in church!”

I was still holding my “hat,” speechless for a moment. I didn’t know a lot of words, like Protestant, which this woman obviously was. Most people in the area were. But I did know some things.

I’d been to my stepmom’s church. She is Black. It seemed like every lady was wearing a huge hat. I’d been to my friend’s church — or maybe a synagogue — where they had spare scarves for women who forgot to wear theirs. On top of that, I had worn cheap little fashion scarves to the Baptist church my mom went to.

In all my eloquence, I responded…

Me: “What? That’s… not…”

Woman: “It’s a gang thing. It’s for your safety.”

It’s been my opinion later in life that this is a remnant of anti-Jewish and anti-Catholic sentiments. All I knew at the time was that this lady was out of line, in my ten-year-old opinion.

I saved my work to my floppy drive and slunk or shuffled away from the woman’s imposing position to stand up.

Woman: “You still need to remove your hat, sweetheart.”

Me: “Who are you?”

Woman: “Oh, I volunteer here. I’m a parent.”

I remembered to smile and look friendly.

Me: “Volunteering to do what?”

She happily responded, and I don’t remember what she said. I lost interest quickly, deciding she had nothing to do with me. I decided to walk away and return to class, so I cut in to say one last comment.

Me: “Church hats.”

Woman: “…what?”

I just mimed having a huge hat and made sound effects with a few flower motions while walking backward.

Woman: “But your hat…”

I mimed a big long feather coming out of the imagined hat.

She just sat there in her tiny chair as I made my exit.