This story reminds me of an incident we had during a school trip

It’s common for Dutch schools to have a cultural trip abroad in the pre-exam year. It’s partly educational, but also a nice way to have a few fun days with the class.

During our trip, there was also a day of white-water rafting in the French Alps. Though white doesn’t do justice to the brilliant blue of that river due to its mineral content. The water flows quickly, but it’s safe enough to also jump in at many parts, and there are frequent small islands where you can stop and have a break. The rafting is organized by a local company.

This part of the trip is optional; if a student does not want to join, they are free not to, and we explain the risks clearly and have them sign a waiver.

Once on the water, what you’d expect to happen when you put over forty sixteen-to-seventeen-year-olds on rafts happens, and there is lots of trying to pull people from the rafts, splashing, and general fun, but it all seems okay. 

Until halfway through the experience, one of the instructors on the other raft flags down the one I am on and calls out to me.

Instructor: “Monsieur! Monsieur! Your student. He has broken his shoulder!”

I immediately panic and have flashes of helicopters having to fly in to lift the student from the river, as I’m being taken to them on the island, a raft has stopped. As I arrive, I run towards the student.

Me: “What happened?! Are you alright?”

He looks at me and says:

Student: “Oh yeah. No biggie. I just dislocated my shoulder. That has happened like five times already this year. I’m going to the hospital to have that surgically corrected during the summer. I’ll just need a sling and some aspirin.”

Me: “What possessed you to go wild water rafting if that’s the case?”

Student: “Well, it seemed like fun!”

Once we got back safely and he was in his sling, I, of course, had to contact his parents, who were obviously a tad upset that he’d gone rafting against, as it turned out, his doctor’s advice, but basically chalked it up as an important lesson for him to listen to doctors next time.

This story happened back in the late 90s when I was in Primary School. One week, I had been out of school for a couple of days due to illness. On the bus home from school, my friend told me that the next day we had a school trip. Immediately, I was worried as my teacher hadn’t mentioned this, and I had no idea about it.

My friend didn’t seem to know anything about what the trip was for, so my parents ended up calling different parents around our neighbourhood. Finally, my best friend’s mother told me about what the trip was for and said she would be one of the chaperones for the trip and would take me to it.

The day of the trip, my teacher started asking for permission letters. I realized that she hadn’t given me one, but when I pointed this out, she got frustrated and said I needed a letter. There was a lot of fuss about it, but my teacher seemed to realize she had messed up, and I was allowed to go. 

When I was walking to the car with my best friend and his mother, the headmistress appeared with a stern look on her face. For reasons I never fully understood, this woman took a dislike to me and would frequently tell me off or single me out for things. She was already glaring and wagging her finger at me.

Headmistress: “[My Name], you’re very lucky you’re going on this trip! You’re supposed to have a letter signed by your parents; you know this!”

Me: “But Mrs. [Headmistress]—”

Headmistress: “—Letters have to be signed, or in the future you won’t get to go! I’m very disappointed—”

Friend’s Mother: “[Headmistress], sorry to interrupt, but [My Name] didn’t actually know about this trip until he was on the bus home yesterday! He wasn’t given a letter by [Teacher’s Name].”

Headmistress: “Regardless, letters need to be signed.”

Friend’s Mother: “But he wasn’t told about the trip until he was nearly home; how was he supposed to get a letter signed?”

Headmistress: “It is [My Name]’s responsibility to find out about the trip and get a letter.”

Friend’s Mother: “Sorry, [Headmistress], but isn’t that the teacher’s responsibility? How was he supposed to know about the trip if he wasn’t told about it? He was ill for two days this week, remember?”

Headmistress: “He needed to have the letter signed to go on the trip, that’s—”

Friend’s Mother: “—How could he get a letter if he wasn’t told about the trip? Sorry [Headmistress], but this doesn’t make sense! [My Name] was not informed by [Teacher], who also didn’t give him a letter. Explain how he was supposed to get it signed if he wasn’t given it?”

The headmistress suddenly went quiet, and it dawned on her that her foolproof argument had some major flaws in it. Her face went red, and she looked annoyed.

Headmistress: “Well, in the future, make sure the letter is signed.”

Friend’s Mother: “Well, also in the future, make sure teachers TELL HIM about any trips, maybe that will avoid this problem!”

Headmistress stomped off in a huff and got into her car. It was fun watching her try to speed away in her old and slow car. The trip itself was a waste of time; we just went to the local secondary school to watch some GCSE dances. It was little more than an excuse to miss school.

I never had that issue again, though weirdly, not long after the headmistress announced she would be leaving the school at Christmas that year. She claimed it was because she had ‘achieved everything she needed to’, but most of all felt there were likely some complaints about her, and she jumped before she was pushed.

The museum I work at has a replica church with a graveyard behind it. It looks very realistic and even has some flowers on the graves for some reason, but I’ve had it confirmed that not only are there no dead bodies, but none of the names and dates are real, either.

I’ve gotten tired of my campers screaming about it, asking about zombies, and even refusing to walk through it, so now I exclusively refer to it as “the fake graveyard”. We’ve been walking through the historical buildings and are a distance from our classroom.

Me: “Okay, let’s vote. Who wants to go back through the fake graveyard?”

About five hands go up.

Me: “Who wants to go back the other way?”

About seven hands go up.

Me: “Okay, we’ll go back the other way.”

The kids make a few disappointed noises.

Me: “It’s okay! We’re actually going to walk by it, and you should be able to see it; we just won’t walk through it.”

I lead the line of kids down the path.

Camper #1: “Is the fake graveyard real?”

Me: *Trying very, very hard not to be sarcastic.* “What do you think?”

Camper #1: “No.”

Me: “That’s right.”

Camper #2: *Roughly one minute later.* “Is the graveyard real?”

Me: *Slightly more hopeful about this interaction.* “What do you think?”

Camper #2: “Yes.”

Me: “…?”

Maybe he was joking. I hope he was joking. I really, really hope so.

I submitted “The Secretest Santa That Ever Secreted“:

I had a field trip that happened in that same school year that I mentioned in the comments as an example of how I was one of the few impoverished students in a program full of wealthy (or wealthy-in-appearance) students and classmates–here is an elaboration on it.

We were sent downtown for this field trip. Rather than going on a school bus, this program preferred to have parents volunteer as chaperones. For this one, students were randomly assigned to a group of four to five, plus a parent. I had been given $5 for this field trip to buy lunch. We were poor (I was on the free lunch program), so while it wasn’t much, I appreciated it. The field trip was divided into two parts, with an hour-long lunch break in between.

When it was time for lunch, we got in the parents’ car and drove off; she asked the group if there was anywhere they’d like to go. We passed by an interesting-looking place, which I now know is the Grand Central Market. I suggested we get lunch there. The parent, knowing what I was referring to, said:

Parent: “No, that’s poor people’s food.”

Ultimately, she made the final decision as no one else in the group had suggested anything, none of the others being too familiar with the area either. We went to an area in the business district with no one else around that I could see and except at a Starbucks attached to an office building; we went there. Now, this was the late 2000s. In this area, at the time, Starbucks hadn’t been around for too long, so it was locally known as a place to get coffee more expensive (that is, classier and more sophisticated) than at other places, so it was popular among the wealthy and those who liked to appear wealthy, especially teenagers who wanted to look mature.

We all went inside. I don’t know if this was because Starbucks was more limited in its menu at that time or if it was a small location with a deliberately limited menu, but all it had for non-coffee items were cookies, some simple pastries under a heat lamp, and muffins. The only thing I could afford with the $5 on me was a cookie. Not in the mood to have a single cookie for lunch and nothing else, I walked out looking for anywhere else to eat in the area. There was nothing within sight except for this one place that was not only closed at the moment, but the menu posted outside had even more expensive stuff. I just sat on an unused chair in front of the Starbucks.

Eventually, everyone else in the group walked out with coffee. They had no solid food. The parent turned to me.

Parent: “You didn’t get anything?”

Me: “I couldn’t afford anything there, and I didn’t want just a cookie by itself.”

Parent: “I see. Well, I’m shocked. Shocked that you didn’t get anything. Oh well.”

She turned to the rest of the group and chatted about what they experienced in the first half of the field trip, while I continued to sit in that chair to kill time for the lunch break to end. They sat together at another table. I wasn’t going to tell anyone else during the second half of the field trip, knowing I would be mocked and teased about it to the end of the year over it.

I should’ve just accepted the cookie.

This was way back when. More years than I can count on ten fingers, and more than I care to think about.

We were on a coach headed on a school trip to Hadrian’s Wall. At the time, we were all probably around ten years old. We were excited. At one point during the trip, with still a good while to go, one of my classmates pipes up excitedly:

Classmate #1: “Look! There it is! I see Hadrian’s Wall!”

Cue excited scrambling while we try to catch our first glimpse. And then, from around the midsection of the coach:

Classmate #2: “That’s someone’s garden wall, ya idiot!”