Principal: *at staff meeting* “It is pointless to complain about someone without talking to them first. If a parent complains about you to me, I’ll ask if they’ve spoken with you. If you have a problem with a coworker, talk to them, not me. You can’t resolve an issue if the person isn’t even in the room.”
(Later:)
Principal: “We can no longer serve sugary snacks in school. Thanks, Obama.”
(The former president was not in the room.)
(My right hand was amputated when I was a baby. My school isn’t told before I start there as there isn’t really anything I can’t do with one hand. I am eleven years old, on my first day at my new secondary school.)
Teacher: “Can everyone write their full names on their homework planners, please?”
(The class does.)
Teacher: “Can we be doing this with our rights hands, please? We do things properly at this school.”
(We all look up in confusion, then carry on exactly as we were.)
Teacher: *pointing at me* “I said, ‘right hand!’“
Me: *holding up right arm* “I’m sorry, miss, but I don’t have a right hand.”
Teacher: “Stop being silly and write with your right hand.”
(I rotate my arm to show the front and back of my forearm.)
Me: “I’m really sorry, miss, but I don’t have a right hand; it was amputated when I was a baby.”
Teacher: “Then go and sit outside the Headmaster’s office. I will not have your defiance in my classroom.”
(I gather my things and leave, very confused as to what I have done wrong. The Headmaster calls me into his office and I explains why I am there.)
Headmaster: “So, you don’t have a right hand, and were told to use your right hand… which you don’t have?”
Me: “Pretty much.”
Headmaster: “Well, we can tape the pen to the end of your arm, I suppose. Yes, that is better than this left-handed nonsense. You’ll use your right arm from now on.”
(I left his office totally bewildered and used my left hand for the rest of the day with no issues. I told my parents, who reported it to the school governors. The headmaster retired a month later, and the teacher went on maternity leave later in the year and never came back. It wasn’t mentioned again. I wasn’t able to move schools, as no school in the area had a spare place. It was all a bit weird.)
(I’m teaching certain classes in my department to fund the final year of my PhD. I go to the department administrator to ask her how many students are in a class so I can fill in equipment request forms for a practical. When I get to her office, our admin is standing in the middle of it looking upset.)
Me: “[Admin], are you okay?”
Admin: “I’ve scratched my new watch.”
(She shows me a smartwatch, and since it was her birthday a week or so earlier I assume it was a gift.)
Admin: “I stood up, and I must have been a bit dizzy because I stumbled into the door and scratched it on the lock. It’s brand new, and I really don’t want to pay over £100 to get the screen fixed. I don’t know if it will be waterproof any more.”
Me: “If you get a screen protector–“
(Before I can say anything else, she shouts, “I have one!” and immediately starts picking at the screen of her watch. A few moments later, she’s picked the protector off to reveal an undamaged screen underneath. Before I can do or say anything, she throws herself at me and hugs me so hard I am knocked back a few steps, since she is a little taller than I am. Finally, she lets me go.)
Admin: “So what did you need?”
Me: “How many student are in [module]?”
(She sits down at her desk and opens the page she needs to tell me that.)
Admin: “You don’t mind hugs, do you?”
Me: “A bit late if I did.”
(I’m not actually fond of hugs from anyone except family and close friends, but she was so happy I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. She gave me the class size and I went to fill in my paperwork.)
(I have a student who is severely allergic to peanuts. It’s in their IEP that even incidental contact could cause them serious problems, and I have to pay close attention to labels on what I eat and wash my hands vigorously if I have anything nut-related. I’m in a committee meeting in my principal’s office. Her recently-restocked candy dish is FULL of Reese’s Pieces.)
Me: *stares at bowl hungrily and uncertainly*
Principal: “What’s wrong?”
Me: “I really want a Reese’s, but I don’t have time to wash my hands as much as I’d need to before I pick up my class.”
Principal: “Does washing your hands really take that long?”
Me: “I mean, it’s either that or I accidentally kill [Student]…”
(Long pause as I realize what I just joked about, and my principal just stares.)
Principal: *tossing three pieces my way* “Well, if you’re killing [Student], you might as well make it worth your while.”
(For the record, I did wash my hands the required amount, and was only a minute late picking up my class.)
When I was still in middle school, my mother worked as a principal for an elementary school. When she was employed there, the school used a bus company called “The Little Britches Buses” for the kindergartners to pick them up and drop them off from school, as well as to take them on field trips.
One day, due to a scheduling error the buses ended up running very late, so, as the principal, my mother had to send out an email notifying all the kindergarten teachers of this occurrence. The computer in my mother’s office was a pretty old model, and some of the keys were a bit sticky, especially the R key.
She was kind of in a rush to get those emails out, so she didn’t notice her mistake until it was too late, and ended up sending an email that read:
“The Little B****es Buses are going to be late today.”
Thankfully, all the teachers either understood her mistake or were laughing too hard for her to get in any trouble.
