(I work in student accommodation. Some international students arrive to live on campus earlier than other students. I get to the office to find the managers laughing with a note in their hand.)

Me: “What’s so funny?”

Manager: “So, you know how some students can start living here early if they are international students?”

Me: “Yeah?”

Manager: “Well, this student stayed his first night last night and has a couple of complaints.”

Me: “Okay, what’s wrong? It’s not that bad here.”

(They looked at each other and started laughing again and handed me the note. I read the note and had to read it again to make sure I’d read it properly. The student couldn’t sleep because the campus was near some train tracks and he was demanding we stop the trains from running in the future. He didn’t understand that we had no control over the trains. All we could do was offer some earplugs and wish him the best.)

To preface this, I am a nerdy person. I got good grades and studied hard, I read a ton, and I generally like to know things — oh, yes, and I drink, too.

In my high school, in-school college classes were popular to take because, hey, free credits. One of the classes was college composition. It was basically a writing class that taught how to write good essays, not s***ty five-paragraph format that any professor would fail immediately. About a third of my entire class was in it, so a little more than 30 kids. 

The first assignments we got involved reading Homer’s Odyssey and The Iliad, as well as The Aeneid and Dante’s Inferno. Obviously, that’s a lot, but the teacher was super thorough with notes and helping us break down language for the eventual super test that was going to have all of this nonsense on it. 

During my time in Comp I noticed that a large group of the students, juniors at this point, were having more fun hiding the fact that they were on their phones. I didn’t think much of this since it was pretty normal. 

Well, the test came around, worth about 250 points, and I got about 230. Not bad, I thought, but I didn’t realize the twist. 

You see, I was one of seven people in a class of 36 that passed and not because the test was hard. Questions were like, “Why are the first seven chapters of The Odyssey referred to as ‘the Telemachy’?” Answer, “Because they are about Telemachus.” That’s it. If you paid attention and took decent notes you were fine. 

In an effort to not have everyone fail, my teacher decided to weigh the grade to 140, so darn, all that hard work for nothing, right? 

Nope! I got my progress report and I had over 200 percent. She gave the extra points as extra credit for the students that passed. Suffice it to say, I didn’t have to write four papers because of this. She explicitly told me and the others who passed not to, as they were only to bring other grades up since even with her curve fifteen people still failed. 

Moral: if you’re taking a college class for free with the intention to go to college, you should probably listen.

(I have just been elected Shop Steward in my local union, so I have been sent to a Shop Steward training class. This happens shortly after class begins.)

Instructor: “Can anyone tell me what you need to do in order to successfully negotiate with a company?”

(I look around the room. I really don’t want to be the first person to speak up, but I can see everyone else drawing blanks. As a side note, I am a fairly cynical person and have a somewhat jaundiced view of most of humanity. Reluctantly, I put up my hand.)

Instructor: “Yes, [My Name]?”

Me: “You need to be able to hurt them.”

Instructor: *making a sour face* “We weren’t supposed to get to that right away.”

Me: “But that’s it in a nutshell, isn’t it?”

Instructor: “Yes. You must have some form of leverage.”

I had been working as an English teacher for about a year at this university, and always had an open-door policy with my students so I could help them with their papers for any class. I was on the young side of things, only a couple of years older than half my students. 

As a new, young faculty member, one of the male teachers asked me out. I turned him down flat. I made it clear I wasn’t into dating anyone as I’m asexual and aromantic. He blurted out, “You just don’t like guys!” and stormed off.

What I didn’t realize was that this was overheard by one of my female students. She started coming to my office regularly. I inquired about any papers she needed help with, but she was very evasive. It seemed like she mostly came to shoot the breeze. I talked to the extent I could while I was grading.

Then, the gifts started coming. She would leave them with the department secretary, who would deliver them to me. That’s when I finally put two and two together; this student not only was bisexual, but she wanted me to be the third wheel in her relationship with her boyfriend. When she’d heard the male faculty accuse me of “not liking guys,” she thought that meant I was a lesbian and would be interested in her.

I told her gently but firmly that I couldn’t be in a relationship and that it wouldn’t be appropriate for her to hang out in my office unless we were discussing her homework. It seemed she understood as she stopped coming by.

But she still sent gifts, leaving them with the department secretary. I told the secretary to stop accepting gifts on my behalf, but the next time, the secretary would accept them anyway.

I then was taken aside by the department head to talk about accepting gifts from students that could be construed as “bribes,” and I was asked if I’d been keeping documentation of all my grades in case I was accused of doctoring the books or playing favorites. I was mortified. I insisted I didn’t accept the gifts — that the secretary kept accepting them on my behalf. I insisted he talk to her so she understood why it needed to stop. I doubt the department head believed me.

And still, the gifts came. I refused to accept them, but the secretary would just leave them on my desk when I wasn’t around. I didn’t want to throw them out in case I got accused of taking them home. I finally started leaving them on the secretary’s desk once or twice until I was able to land a new job and get out of that university before anything worse escalated.

(I am an assistant junior preschool teacher. Our class consists of kids age eighteen months to three years. This happens while reviewing animals with a pair of twins in the class.)

Me: “[Twin Sister], what animal says, ‘moo’?”

Twin Sister: “Cow!”

Twin Brother: “Vodka!”

(The lead teacher and I go dead face, wondering where on earth a near two-year-old could hear the word “vodka” and say it with such clarity.)

Me: “Did he just say, ‘vodka’?”

Lead Teacher: “I think so. [Twin Brother], what animal says, ‘moo’?”

Twin Brother: “Vodka!” 

(He is clearly proud of himself because he thinks he said the right word. By the end of the day, my coworker leaves instructing me to tell the twin’s mother what her son said and ask if she knows why.)

Me: “So, [Twin Brother] said something today and we really don’t know where he heard it.”

Twin’s Mother: *shocked* “Oh, really? What was it?”

Me: “Well, we asked what animal says, ‘moo,’ and [Twin Sister] said, ‘cow,’ but [Twin Brother] said, ‘vodka.’”

Twin’s Mother: *sighing with relief* “Oh! He’s saying, ‘vaca.’ It’s Spanish for ‘cow.’ I’ve taught them a couple of words and numbers in Spanish.”