This takes place during my final year of college, when we’re doing our big project worth 50% of our grade. The professors have created the groups, and I’m the only native English speaker in my group. The professors have decided that this will give the International Students a hand in writing. This makes sense to me since I previously completed an English diploma before going back to school. About midway through, one professor comes up to me.

Professor: “It seems like you do most of the editing in the drafts.”

Me: “Well, yes. That’s what you wanted me to do.”

Professor: “I know you come from a writing background, but maybe give them a chance. They can work on their English!”

Me: “I totally support them to do that, but this is also my grade. You ding us for grammar and spelling. Trust me, I really don’t mind doing it.”

Professor: “I won’t do any ‘dings’ this time around. Just give them a chance!”

Me: “If you insist.”

As anyone learning a second language knows, speaking, reading, and writing are different skills. I have all the respect in the world for anyone learning a second language, and college has a steep learning curve. My project partners can speak English, but their writing uses a different grammar structure. Think, “Paul and I, to the store, we did walk.” I’m pretty sure they wrote it in their native languages and then used Google Translate.

This time, I don’t edit anything but make suggestions on how to improve it. It’s submitted at the start of class, but the professor comes up the me before the end of the class after our break.

Professor: “So… how fast can you edit?”

Me: “Probably an hour, more if I need to get more information from them.”

Professor: “Please do. I just… I can’t read this! It’s so confusing! I’ll give you until midnight to resubmit it

I got it done, and they didn’t question my editing again.

Back in high school, I remember learning to make a circuit with wires, a battery, and a tiny lightbulb. The really smart kids also added a switch and learned how it connected and disconnected the circuit.

Present day, my fourteen-year-old turns to me and asks.

Kid: “Do you want to see my homework?”

Me: “Sure.”

They pull out all these wires and three little coloured lights — red, yellow, and green — and proceed to construct something. They’re connecting alligator clips and troubleshooting which bulbs need to be replaced. Finally, they have the whole thing put together.

Me: “Is this for an electrical class or something?”

Kid: “No. It’s for coding.”

And then they plug it into their computer and open up a program they wrote. I stare in wonder as the lights flash on and off. Red. Green. Yellow.

Kid: “That’s not right; these two are mixed up.”

They then reassemble it so they light up red, then yellow, and then green, muttering to themself as they go.

Me: “Hey, even with the signals being switched, that is still really impressive.”

Kid: “What? I haven’t started yet. This program just tests that I wired it properly. Here is my coding homework.”

And then the lights started flashing in a pattern with alternating speeds. I stood there with my mind blown, remembering my school days with the lightbulb, battery, and switch.

Kids these days.

As part of a career change, I once took an online university course. When I got a paper back from the instructor, I was dismayed to see several grammar and spelling errors indicated. In my existing career, I’m a language professional and have been for twenty years, so I was puzzled by this to say the least.

On closer inspection, it turned out that the instructor had accepted all of the suggested “corrections” from Microsoft Word, marking them as though each had represented an actual error. Of course, they hadn’t, given how the spelling and grammar check works: the corrections are merely suggested, and it’s up to the user to decide whether the change makes sense or not.

In fact, in some cases accepting the suggested change introduced an error. For example, it corrected “assuming that” to “if” in a sentence, for “concision”. But I wasn’t using “assuming that” to mean “if”; I was literally referring to the act of assuming (e.g. “Client-centered care can include not assuming that the therapist understands the client’s background,” etc.), so replacing it by “if” made the sentence gibberish.

Never mind, of course, that I had obviously typed the thing in Word, so I had seen all the same suggested corrections she had and decided that they weren’t appropriate. 

It’s hard to describe how personally and professionally indignant I felt about this, especially because she had docked me marks for each of these “corrections” and left a little comment about “paying more attention” to spelling and grammar!

I still got above a ninety (out of 100) on both the paper and the course, so I decided it wasn’t worth the hassle to complain about, but it still rankles me.

It’s the 1990s, and I am the depressed and often bullied child of a single mother. So often (though I’ve become an overachiever later in life) I can’t be bothered.

At school, we have an assignment to make a model of a cell — extra credit if it’s edible and can be shared with the class. 

It’s the morning of the assignment, and I’m eating breakfast.

Mom: “I have to take you now, or you’ll be late.”

Me: “Oh, wait.”

I go to the cupboard and grab the heel of a stale loaf of bread.

Mom: “What—”

Me: “I’m making a plant cell. Give me a minute.”

I grab Cool Whip from the fridge, a couple of plastic baggies, and food coloring, and quickly make squeeze bags. I draw the various organelles, and we rush to school.

Mom: “Why did you make… that?”

Me: “Extra credit!”

I go to class and have to present my cell. I stand in the front, ready to take the abuse I will receive regardless of effort.

Teacher: “That’s disgusting! What is it?”

Me: “You told us to make a diagram of a cell. I was about to explain to the class about the plant cell, using this.”

Teacher: “This is insulting. I expect people to put effort in. Your classmate brought a Jello casserole. Why would you bring a slice of bread?”

Me: “Plant cells are rectangular and fibrous, like this bread. And my classmates had their parents help, or do all of it.”

Teacher: “But… you could have drawn a picture! What is this?”

Me: “This is a stale bread heel with colored Cool Whip. You said you were giving extra credit if we made our project into food to share with the class.”

Teacher: “But that is disgusting! I am not giving you credit. That is obviously not what I meant.”

Me: “I am confident that I have brought enough for everyone who wants some to get a piece.”

Teacher: “What do you mean? It’s one price of bread and twenty students.”

Me: “I could break this into twenty-five in case some people want seconds. But let’s see.” *Looks at the class* “Raise your hand if you want some of this stale bread I’m holding.”

The class looks at me. Some laugh, and some make retching noises. One kid raises his hand.

Me: “Unless anyone else wants this, I’m giving it to that guy. Looks like I had enough to share with everyone who wanted it.”

I give it to the kid. The teacher gives me the stink-eye.

Boy: “This actually isn’t too bad. It’s gross, but I expected worse. I’ll eat it.”

No one liked that kid, either, and this didn’t help him. I don’t remember what happened after that, but I will always be inspired by that audacity whenever I’m doing something last-minute.

For the most part, I got along with my teachers growing up. My ninth-grade (freshman) English teacher, however, absolutely hated my guts.

I was in school sports, on both the wrestling and football teams, and I was on the school chess team, so I had to take a lot of days off for events. This specific teacher looked up the days I would be away and doubled the homework due after those days, knowing I wouldn’t be able to finish it all. (Yes, I know that was a lot of clubs. I was an overachiever in high school. I kind of regret it now; it cost me a lot in lost time and stress.)

She didn’t check the homework every single day, but she always did after those long away periods!

Worse, she would give me low grades — seventies and eighties — on my papers that had very few notations or marks, but I would talk with other children and see that their papers were heavily marked up but would be scored in the nineties.

After one particularly low grade — sixty-four — on an assignment that I had busted my a** off for and knew I had performed particularly well on, I asked her about it.

Teacher: “You’re only using about half of your total capacity, but these other students are doing 100% of their total capacity. I have higher expectations for you than for them.”

Me: “So, you mean that if my paper is better than, say, [Classmate]’s paper… you’re going to give me fewer points because you think I’m smarter than him?”

Teacher: *Smiling and nodding* “Yes! Exactly!”

What. A. B****.

If that wasn’t bad enough, she gave us an opportunity for extra credit: we had to go to a local college’s rendition of a play called “Eye Piece” and write a 2,500-word paper on it, tie it to what we discussed in class over the play, and turn in the ticket and playbill.

It was due on Monday. The play ran late Friday through Sunday, so there was no way to do it and turn it in ahead of time. But I was going to miss Monday for a competition — a huge competition that our school only got into because we placed highly in our circuit during the year.

I asked her if I could turn it in on Tuesday, and I got confirmation that I could multiple times — over and over, every day, the whole week in the run-up to the event.

I busted my f****** a** off writing that paper after the play so that it wouldn’t interfere with my event. Come Tuesday, she wouldn’t accept it.

Teacher: “That would be unfair to the students who got their assignments in on time. I don’t remember ever telling you that I’d accept it today. You should’ve dropped it off yesterday after your event.”

(At least the play was very good. I recommend watching it if they ever put on a production of it near you.)

I finally got my revenge during the final exam. It was a 105-question exam scored out of 100; the final five questions, for an extra point each, were “freebies”. “What did you learn in this class?” “What was your favorite part of the class?” “How do you plan to apply what you learned in this class to your life?” And so on.

I gave her both barrels. I said, “Because you never left comments on how to improve on my papers, I didn’t learn anything.” I said, “My favorite part of this class is that it’s over.” I said, “I plan to use what I learned in this class to better recognize bosses and other superiors when I finally start working.”

I gave many examples of the things she’d done, the mean things she’d said to me, and the names she’d occasionally called me (she often referred to me as “The Jock” as though it was an insult), and used them to support my positions in my little essays, as I proved that she was the most terrible teacher I had ever had and that she was hurting not just me, but the other students in the class with her terrible teaching style. 

I spent all the time I had left after finishing the rest of the test pouring my pain into those bonus questions.

I finished the test and went to wait in the study hall for a bit before my next final.

The teacher confronted me in that study hall with snot running down her face and demanded that I see her at the principal’s office.

There, she told her side of the story first, crying, screaming, and choking with tears. I apparently had hurt her feelings very badly and was a very ungrateful student. I mostly tuned her out as I prepared my defense.

The principal then asked for my side of the story, and I explained. I even was able to read sections from the answers I had given. The principal listened attentively to my venting about all of the s*** and abuse I’d gone through that year. (It had been a lot, much of which I am not mentioning here.)

The principal sighed and turned to the teacher.

Principal: “How many points were these questions worth?”

Me: “Five bonus points!”

Principal: “So, don’t give him any bonus points if you feel so put out by it.”

I still made the highest score in the class on the final, so I had that going for me.

I heard later that, after that performance, the next school year, the teacher had to have all of her assignments signed off by the department chair, and she had to begin accepting assignments by email.

A few years later, she chose another student to abuse like she had abused me, and this time, she got fired for it because they were actually watching her. Prior to my dramatic complaint, the administration hadn’t known she was a problematic teacher.

I had myself a little celebration on her firing-versery the next year, even though I had moved on to college by then. I made my whole dorm cinnamon rolls and refused to explain why.