I have some… memory issues. I am very good at retaining information, but events as they are happening, not so much. What this means is that I can recite long poems I had to study in Literature classes without hesitating, explain the symbolism of many flowers because I read a rather fascinating book on it years ago, or recount the history of the textile industry in my hometown almost exactly the way I learned about it in school, but don’t bother asking me what I ate for dinner two days ago. I also frequently forget where I’ve put things, what I was doing when my thought process was interrupted, and stuff like that.

I deal with this to the best of my abilities. I use not only the calendar app on my phone for reminders, but also a paper day planner AND a wall-mounted calendar, so I don’t forget appointments, birthdays, or when essays and such are due. I set a daily alarm so I don’t forget to take my medication. (Though, I still forget sometimes when the alarm goes off while I’m in the middle of something.) I make grocery lists so I don’t get back from the store only to realise I’ve forgotten something crucial… and sometimes I reach the store only to realise I’ve forgotten to take the grocery list with me).

And I am used to triple-checking things, like if I have everything I need before leaving the house, or if I’ve got the right time and place for an appointment. I still end up forgetting things on a regular basis, but I always thought it wasn’t all that noticeable to other people. Wrong!

One day, I arrive at the university I attend for a seminar. I enter the classroom as usual with everyone else, find a seat, and go to take the stuff I need for class out of my bag.

Me: *Resigned* “Aww, darn it.”

Classmate: “What is it?”

Me: “Forgot my textbook.”

I want to add that I was sure I’d put it into my bag last night, but the teacher, who I’ve had for a few different subjects over the last three years, breaks into the conversation in a matter-of-fact tone.

Teacher: “If I got a bottle of wine for every time you forgot something, [My Name], I would have a very well-stocked cellar.”

Me: “I swear I’m not doing it on purpose, sir!”

At the next seminar, I remembered to bring my textbook… but I left my water bottle on the kitchen counter.

Let’s face it: I’m hopeless!

I worked in a high school outside of Washington DC. It was a school with a rougher reputation; on more than one occasion I was asked if I felt safe there, even from colleagues at other schools in the district. It was my first or second year of teaching and I was a general education teacher. What this meant was that sometimes I was a student’s only teacher who was not in the special education department, and I was often pulled for IEP (Individualized Education Program) or similar meetings. 

I was summoned for a meeting about a student in one of my classes, a female sophomore. The teacher running this meeting discussed the student’s home issues and gave the opportunity for others to discuss how she was in class. Her attendance was an issue, amongst other things. My heart broke due to her situation, and I was shocked by everything I heard because that was not my experience with her. This girl was absolutely wonderful in my class; she showed up and participated, and she started a silly tradition on one of my whiteboards. (That tradition was eventually transposed into a notebook that I still have in my possession fifteen years later, long after ending my teaching career.)  

There were only four classes a day, and I had this student during the last class period of the day, which started around 12:30. On a day I knew she was absent in the morning, I saw her during a time between classes. I said something to her about being late. It was probably sarcastic, which was the beauty of teaching teenagers.)

Student: “I only come for your class.”

My first real teaching job, after a few years of substitute teaching, was at a very small school. Out of about sixty teachers, serving all ages from kindergarten to high school, I was the only teacher there with less than ten years of full-time teaching experience. Of course, I was expected to magically be at the same level as all the other teachers, despite it being my first real teaching job.

The school decided halfway through the year that I wasn’t doing well enough, and they pulled my classes from me in an attempt to get me to quit. They kept me on as, basically, a warm body who could step in to substitute teach if other teachers were gone, tutor kids one-on-one if they were struggling in their regular classes, or help with various administrative “busy work” tasks. But it was obvious that I was supposed to resign because I wasn’t teaching.

The joke was on them. I had an apartment lease, so I still needed the job, and I actually enjoyed all those random tasks more than I enjoyed the actual teaching; it was all the fun of working with the kids every day without any of the headache of writing lessons, grading papers, etc.

This story reminded me of an experience I had with a difficult teacher in high school. My history teacher was known for having a hair-trigger temper to the point that, due to his looks and fiery personality, the students referred to him as “Heat Miser”. Shout-out to those of you familiar with a now twice-outdated claymation reference.

I tended to sit in the back of his class for a number of reasons, and I dressed in hand-me-down or thrifted clothing due to the economic status of my family. Both details are crucial for this particular story.

I took my notes by hand with my head down, focusing between looking at [Teacher]’s Smartboard and my spiralbound notebook. On the day this occurred, I had an old, frayed necklace that consisted of many strands and was a deep, noticeable green.

After class, [Teacher] stopped me on my way out the door with this little ditty.

Teacher: “If you’re just gonna show up to class and listen to music the whole time, you can stop showing up to my class.”

Me: *Confused* “I wasn’t listening to music—”

Teacher: “Don’t bulls*** me. I saw the wire! You had your earbud in!”

While he continued trying to lecture me, I looked down and realized that one of the strands of my necklace had come undone from the clasp. Silently, I lifted the strand of the necklace and held it out to him. I saw the exact moment it clicked, but, still too prideful and blustering to accept it, he snarled: 

Teacher: “Well… STILL!”

“Still” what? Bemused, I just told him, “Okay, Mr. H,” and headed out the door. 

After that, he never called on me or bothered me again. I swear, he even went so far as to ignore my raised hand sometimes. Go figure.

Related:
When You Wish They’d Phone It In

I’m in a class in law school.

Professor: “Who can give me an example of a no-fault criminal offense?”

Hands go up. The professor calls upon [Student #1].

Student #1: “Catching underage lobsters.”

Professor: “O… kay, any other examples?”

The professor calls upon [Student #2], who has put his hand down.

Student #2: “Sorry, I was going to say the lobster thing.”

Professor: “Does anyone have any non-lobster-related examples?”

No hands went up.

Unbeknownst to the professor, the first-year criminal law syllabus had changed to include a new leading case on no-fault offenses that involved fishermen catching underage lobsters and failing to release them. That case was the only example all of us could remember from our first year.