I work as a tutor at an “academy” whose programme was specifically created to help kids learn English through reading. It’s important to note that the programme was created in South Korea and is licensed out to business owners who are mostly also native Korean speakers. This mostly isn’t a problem, but sometimes…

One of my students is a particularly bright ten-year-old whose English is excellent and who reads at quite a high level. He tends to be assigned longer books as a result.

Me: “Hey, buddy, how’s it going? What did you read this week?” 

Student: *Looking worried* “Uh… Lord of the Flies.”

Me: “I’m sorry? Did you say Lord of the Flies?”

Student: “Yes.”

I know that some literary classics are published in abridged and expurgated versions to make them more accessible for younger audiences. I wouldn’t think this treatment would work for “Lord of the Flies,” but maybe?

Me: “Can I take a look at your copy of the book?”

He produces the book. Nope, it’s exactly the same edition I read in high school when I was seventeen.

Student: “You know, um, I don’t think this book is for kids. It was really scary.”

Me: “You’re definitely right about that.”

After his session was over, I went to my boss and suggested that this particular book not be assigned to kids younger than about fifteen. She seemed baffled at the idea that a literary classic that’s ABOUT children might not be FOR children — “It’s on the programme list!” — but I eventually persuaded her not to assign it to any more preteens.

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I’m in the third grade, about eight years old, and due to birth defects, I have to use a wheelchair. 

Not only am I fairly independent, but I’m a bit of a daredevil. I’m not one to stay on the asphalt playing four square or tetherball; I love the monkey bars.

We have a new teacher as a playground monitor, and she seems to think of me as a delicate flower or something. It’s the first day of school, and at recess, my friends help me wheel over the grass to the monkey bars.

Cue the playground monitor running at full speed, blowing her whistle, and yelling at me to get down before I get hurt.

As she arrives in a panic, we explain that I climb all the time. One of my friends tells her, “Even if [My Name] falls, he’s not going to get paralyzed-er.”

I am an upperclassman running the freshman orientation. As an icebreaker, we’ve decided to play the adjective name game, where each person thinks of an adjective that starts with the first letter of their name.

Me: “Everyone think of an adjective that starts with the first letter of your name and share it when it’s your turn!”

Freshman: “What’s an adjective?”

Who knows how she got into college!

If you’ve never heard of the “Beep Test,” consider yourself lucky. In New Zealand, some genius decided that a good way to test if children were fit was to make a test where they had to run between a marked distance between the beeps. The beeps would get progressively faster, and the level at which you could no longer cross the line between the beeps was your “fitness level.”

Sounds fun, right?

In my younger years, I had an accident where I’d injured my knee. Nothing permanent, not even a scar, but afterward, I found that I was never able to run as fast as I could before. I’d been a sprinter, but now I was a marathon runner

This meant that no matter how hard I tried, after a certain point, I literally could not run fast enough to get between the beeps! And since that meant a low score, you had to give up your lunch to keep running to get a better score.

My stubborn counter to this was that no matter what, I kept running. I wouldn’t get over the line fast enough, but the fact that I continued to run told the teachers I was fit “enough” for purposes, just not fast enough.

I had to do the beep test at least once a year, as required, but I never had to stay in for a lunch with my direct and stubborn ability to stay running for the whole test.

I continue to be angry in adulthood that someone figured that speed was the same thing as being fit.

The one time I don’t turn in my work for my senior English class, I have a legitimate excuse. 

Teacher: “Where’s your homework?”

Me: “My cat dragged it into the other room, and…”

I don’t know how to say that she peed on it. 

Teacher: “Half points! Best excuse I’ve ever heard!”