(I am in the military. I am temporarily assigned to another unit, which requires me to report to another base. As I am the only person from my unit going there, no transportation is provided, and since I don’t have a car, I am traveling by bus, with all my usual equipment. I get off the first bus outside of Jerusalem’s central bus station and head inside to catch the next one I need. This being Jerusalem, the security is tight. The following ensues at the entrance:)

Security Guard: *to me* “Sir, I need to inspect your bag.”

(I show him my military ID, which is usually enough to avoid the hassle. Not this time.)

Security Guard: “Sir, I still need to inspect your bag.”

(I look down at myself, then at my sports bag.)

Me: “So, let me get this straight… I’m in full military uniform, which you can see. I’m carrying an assault rifle on a sling, openly, which you can see. There are a couple of ammo mags hanging on my belt, which you can see. My full combat vest, a helmet, and several more mags are wrapped around the outside of my bag, which you can also clearly see. And with all this in plain view, you are suspicious of what I may have inside my bag?”

(Yes, he still made me open the bag.)

(In the early to mid-90s, our family is on a barbecue picnic outing with several other families in a park. I’m around nine or ten, and the other families all also have kids about my age, or even younger. The adults are all busy putting together side dishes, arranging picnic supplies, and grilling meat. Meanwhile, us kids are just milling around or playing. There’s a bunch of supplies people brought just lying around on the ground and tables. After running around a bit, I happen to become thirsty, but we don’t have individual water bottles back then. So, not wanting to bother the adults, I just go over to the supplies and pick out what looks like a perfectly normal liter-sized soda bottle with clear water in it, and begin taking a drink, not touching the bottle itself with my mouth. All of a sudden:)

Adult #1: “Noooo!”

Adult #2: “Stop!”

Adult #3: “No! No! No!”

Adult #4: “Oh, my God, [My Name]! Don’t drink that!”

(Totally confused, I pull away from the bottle while several adults come running over in a panic, and take the bottle away with shocked faces.)

Me: “What? I just wanted some water!”

Adult #2: “Oh, Lord!”

Adult #4: “[My Name], that’s vodka!”

Me: “What?!”

Adult #4: “Didn’t you notice the taste?”

Me: “…”

(I somehow managed not to notice. Even as an adult, I can’t tolerate the taste of alcohol, so I can’t figure out how I wouldn’t have noticed it then. Maybe I never actually got any in my mouth. The other kids thought it was very funny and kept asking me afterwards what it tasted like. That bottle was completely unmarked regarding what it really contained, though, and during the brouhaha, no one seemed to own up to having brought it, though clearly everyone knew what was in it. Who does that on a picnic outing with young kids?)

(It is the 90s, and there is a popular brand of mass-produced, solid-block cottage cheese that is packaged in large transparent plastic bags. My mom has been buying it for us to eat nearly every day for months. Dad always opens it by forcefully ripping up the plastic bag. It has practically become a meal ritual to sit down at lunch or dinner with Dad violently ripping open another bag at the table. I’m not quite nine, and we’ve been in this country maybe three months now. Most of the food packaging here is really different than in our previous country. I’ve noticed that some of the other food items we buy have resealable zippers in their plastic bags, which we’ve never seen before, but my parents do become familiar with these at about the same time I do. One day, sitting at the kitchen table I idly examine an unopened package of the cottage cheese we’re about to eat, and I happen to look closely at the other end of the plastic bag than the one dad always rips open.)

Me: “Mom, look! Doesn’t this look just like the funny zipper on the packages of [Other Food]?”

(Mom looks over idly, mumbles something, and dismisses me. Then, they both sit down at the table.)

Me: “Dad, look at that end of the bag! Doesn’t it look just like the funny zipper from the packages of [Other Food]?”

Dad: *waves me off* “Oh, really, don’t be silly, [My Name]. Of course it doesn’t!”

(He grabs the bag and prepares to rip it open. I reach over, tug it out of his hands, turn it the other way up, and carefully tear off the top tear-off part of the bag, revealing — ta-da! — a resealable zipper; which I then also open with no force required. I present it to them.)

Mom & Dad: “…” *embarrassed silence*

(The looks on both parents’ faces were pretty priceless.)

(I am nine years old. I have a pretty weak constitution and frequently fall ill. Every winter, like clockwork, I’ll get pneumonia, among other illnesses. I learn to recognize and become familiar with the sensation of my lungs feeling full of lead, and sharp, stabbing pain overtaking my ribcage on every inhale. I can’t breathe in enough oxygen to get out of bed. My parents choose their own methods of medical treatment for me. I’ve been bed-bound for days with pneumonia; I’ve got a high fever and am struggling to breathe. My parents have been bringing me occasional water and soup, and some seemingly random, unnamed medicines. Mom comes in, sits on the bed, and hands me a cup of medicine.)

Mom: “You need to drink this.”

(I take a sip. It’s horrifically bitter. I gag, cough, and hand it back.)

Me: “I… can’t… It’s… bitter… and gross!”

Mom: “You have to drink it, anyway; it’s medicine! You need to drink your medicine!”

Me: *panting* “I… can’t! There’s… no… way… I can… drink… that! It’s… undrinkable! It… tastes… like… poison!”

Mom: “Well, if you want to whine about it, fine.” *offhandedly* “Just know that since you’re severely ill, this is the only medicine that will save your life! If you won’t drink it, you’re going to die!“

Me: “…” *shock*

Mom: *matter-of-factly* “Yes, you are! You are so horrifically sick that you’ll die if you don’t drink all of this! Probably very quickly! Tonight, in fact! But I guess you don’t want it, so I’m just going to take this away now! I’m leaving with the medicine now, since you’re choosing to die!”

(She pauses.)

Mom: “Now. Are you suuuuuure you don’t want it?!” *wiggles the cup in front of me*

Me: *horrified fear*

(Of course, I reluctantly took the medicine back and choked it down miserably, while gagging and struggling not to throw up or expel my lungs. They continued “treating” me this way for years for every serious illness. Looking back, I think it’s likely it was some “medicinal” Russian tea, or maybe some over-the-counter unflavored children’s fever reducer like acetaminophen or Aspirin, and I really wouldn’t be surprised if they chose an unflavored version to save money. Some of the other “folk remedies” my parents inflicted on me to “treat” pneumonia were much more disturbing and gross. For some reason, they seemed to just treat these illnesses like regular colds. They never once took me to a doctor or hospital, no matter how bad it got or how high my fever, despite living in a country with free social healthcare, and otherwise regularly taking me to a doctor for check-ups and vaccines.)

(I am a teacher’s assistant at the department of mechanical engineering, teaching mainly an intro-level mechanical design course. As the course is rather difficult — especially given that it is taught to first-year students — it is common for them to do assignments together, in small groups, then hand them in individually as per course requirements. One semester, however, there is a student that does so well that it becomes a habit for him to do assignments soon after they are posted, and then share them with all the other students in the course, at least as reference material. While it is strictly against the rules, I willingly ignore it, as he does help the whole class to do better — but of course I can’t tell the class that I know what’s up… At least until I have to make the following announcement at the beginning of one lesson, after returning the assignments and reviewing common mistakes with the students.)

Me: “Guys, I know that this course isn’t simple; I know that you do the assignments in groups, and I’m quite used to seeing the same odd mistake pop up in several people’s assignments when grading them.”

(I then look directly at that excelling student, and continue:)

Me: “But guys, if all of you are going to base your work on one student’s solution, at least make sure that that one student didn’t misread the question!“

(Cue laughter and that student’s face turning beet red.)