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.

The comments under this story reminded me of an incident from long ago.

I was studying computer science, and part of the final year coursework was a huge software development group project. Four of us were Australian-born. The fifth, Amr, was from the Middle East. His father was a diplomat. They came to Australia when Amr was twelve, and when the next posting came, it was decided that Amr should finish his education in Australia.

So, by the time I met Amr, he had spent ten years in Australia, most of it without his parents. He was an Aussie bloke in most aspects. I knew he was Muslim, but I also knew he was not a strict adherent. For example, he drank more (much more) than the rest of us. What I didn’t know, which is important for this story, was about Halal and Haram. 

We’d typically spend our Saturdays at one of our homes, a big sharehouse near the university with a kitchen and plenty of living rooms. We’d take turns bringing food, and this particular Saturday, I bought two family-sized meat pies and some salad. I stopped working a little before lunchtime to prepare the food. I put the hot pies and cold salad out, and people grabbed plates and took what they wanted.

I was in the kitchen when Amr came back for seconds.

Amr: “This pie is amazing. What is it?”

Me: “Beef and bacon.”

Yeah, I shudder to write that now!

Amr: “OH, NO! Muslims aren’t allowed to eat pork!”

I saw the look on his face, and I started apologising. I knew about Kosher, so I thought I understood what that meant to him. I could not have been more wrong!

Amr: “YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE TOLD ME! Now I can’t have a second slice!”

In case you are curious, Amr finished his degree and was not allowed to stay in the country as his student visa expired. He could not go back to his home country because they have compulsory service and he would be an Aussie boy in a Middle Eastern army. So, he moved to New Zealand, who was happy to have him. His plan was to move back to Australia after he got New Zealand citizenship, but I believe by then he was very happy with his new home. I hope he has discovered turkey bacon!

Related:
We’re Pretty Sure That’s Illegal, Dude!

One day in gym class, one of the girls from a wealthy family dropped her coin purse. It probably contained $30 or more in quarters that she kept for the vending machines, so when she dropped it, it practically exploded, sending quarters flying in all directions. Some of them started rolling toward the bleachers, which were a pain to get under unless you were really small, so I ran to grab them for her. I grew up really poor, and everyone knew it, but they also knew I was honest and helpful — or so I had thought.

Me: *As I’m picking up quarters* “Don’t worry, [Girl #1]! I’ve got them for you!”

As I was picking up the quarters, another girl, who was also pretty well-off, started yelling at me.

Girl #2: “Oh, my God, [My Name]! Stop stealing [Girl #1]’s money!”

I looked over to [Girl #1] and found that she and [Girl #2] were both glaring at me as they were kneeling on the floor picking up quarters.

I was furious; I had just told her I was helping, yet she seemed to believe [Girl #2], who was calling me a thief. I locked eyes with the rich girl and gave her the nastiest smile as I flung the handful of quarters I’d gathered under the bleachers.

Me: *Gasps loudly with a wide-eyed expression* “Oops! Sorry! I didn’t realize you didn’t want my help!” *Smirking* “Have fun getting your money out!”

I was the only person in class who was small enough to easily slip under the bleachers, so they spent the whole class fishing out quarters by sitting on the bleachers and straining to reach through the gaps between the seats.

I was often bullied throughout elementary school and junior high. I struggled with making good friends until I got into high school.

This happened when I was in Life Science class in seventh grade. Our teacher put us into groups of four or five for a project. [Classmate] was in my group, and he had been bullying me since first grade. We started to work on our project, but every time I opened my mouth to say anything, [Classmate] would cut me off.

Classmate: “Shut up, [My Name], or I’ll punch you in the nuts.”

At this time, I should point out that I’m a cis woman.

It didn’t matter what I said, whether I was trying to contribute to the project or just asking [Classmate] to leave me alone. He just kept talking over me with the same line over and over. Even when I gave up and stopped trying to talk, he’d throw his oh-so-clever “threat” out every so often, just to remind me. Our other groupmates just laughed or looked uncomfortable; either way, they said nothing about it and just kept working on the project.

I looked around to see if the teacher had noticed. [Classmate] wasn’t exactly being quiet, but [Teacher] was at her podium on the far side of the room and evidently hadn’t heard anything.

Finally, fed up, I got up to talk to [Teacher]. I didn’t like being a tattletale, but it was incredibly frustrating to be expected to contribute to a group project and then not allowed to do ANYTHING.

Me: “Ms. [Teacher]? [Classmate] won’t let me talk. Every time I try to speak, he tells me to shut up or he’ll ‘punch me in the nuts’.”

[Teacher] was livid, which seemed promising. I hoped that she would walk over to the table and talk quietly to [Classmate] or maybe just move me to another group. Or both. Both would’ve been great.

But instead, she shouted at him from across the room.

Teacher: “[Classmate]! Did you tell [My Name] to shut up or you’d punch her in the nuts?”

The class fell completely silent as everyone stared at [Classmate], [Teacher], or me. I could feel my face burning with embarrassment; this was absolutely the last thing I wanted.

Classmate: “Yeah.”

Teacher: “First of all, that is incredibly rude. Second, the proper name for them is testes. You should know the proper terminology! Do you understand?”

Classmate: “Yeah.”

Teacher: “All right.”

Silence fell again as [Teacher] glared at [Classmate]. After a few moments, people lost interest and general project-related chatter began to rise in the room again.

Teacher: *To me* “Let me know if he keeps bothering you.”

Me: “Okay…”

And I went back to my chair.

Naturally, the harassment continued. I was still not permitted to speak, but [Classmate] had a new refrain.

Classmate: “Shut up, [My Name], or I’ll punch you in the testes.”

I put up with this for a while, but again, I became terribly frustrated. I really didn’t want [Teacher] to make a big thing out of it again, but my only two choices were to sit there and try to tolerate his garbage or to try [Teacher] again. I figured that at least her last attempt had resulted in SOME kind of change, right? So, I trudged back over to the podium.

Me: “Ms. [Teacher], I’m sorry, but [Classmate] still won’t let me talk. He’s just changed it from ‘nuts’ to ‘testes’ now.”

Teacher: “[Classmate]!”

Oh, boy. Here we go again.

Teacher: “For your information, girls do not have testes. You cannot punch [My Name] in the testes because she is a girl and does not have testes.”

Classmate: “…okay.”

Teacher: “Now, leave her alone and work on the project, please. This project is not about the reproductive system; it’s about [whatever life science topic; I don’t remember now].”

Classmate: “Okay.”

The matter apparently settled to [Teacher]’s satisfaction, I went back to the table once more. And once more, [Classmate] had tweaked his “witty one-liner”.

Classmate: “Shut up, [My Name], or I’ll punch you in the nnnnnnnnnose.”

Ooh, what fun! A little bait-and-switch twist on “nuts”!

While the “threats” continued, [Classmate] did eventually grow bored with it and periodically let me actually contribute to the project. I imagine this was at least partially because I was a pretty good student (intellectually if not in terms of actually doing the work), so “allowing” me to pitch in meant less work for him in the long run.

This wasn’t the first time I’d had a teacher intervene in a totally unhelpful way (or refuse to intervene at all), but this incident was the last straw. I never asked teachers for help with bullies anymore after that.

This happened in 2010. Almost all of the professors of this one particular degree course are pretty lenient: you get to write stories. That said, if you don’t turn in a certain number of physical printer pages per semester, your grade will plummet. Rough drafts, finished stories, it doesn’t matter. Not to mention that you must have multiple copies of everything printed out so the other classmates can read and comment, meaning you’ll go through a LOT of paper. 

A rather frazzled classmate of mine is handing her six-page rough draft out to everyone in the room, all twelve or so of us. She realizes she doesn’t have quite enough copies for everyone. 

Professor: “That’s okay. Do you have it saved somewhere? Can you print it in the library?”

Classmate: “Well, uh, no, you see, uh… I don’t have a computer.”

Professor: “…what?”

Classmate: “I live with my grandmother. She doesn’t believe in technology. She lets me use her typewriter.”

Professor: “…you typed all of these out by hand?!”

Classmate: “Now you know why I look so tired all the time! I’ll get everyone more tomorrow. Also, I think we’re out of paper, so I might have to get more…”

Professor: “No. You’re going to get these to us when you can, and we’ll talk about it when you get them to us. Okay?”

That classmate changed the policy for that degree: rough drafts didn’t need to be physical paper, could be sent over email or cloud, and only the final draft needed to be printed!