(I’m new in the country; my first day in high school as a freshman is literally my fourth day after arriving in the US. However, it’s February, the middle of the school year.)

Gym Teacher: “You must pay us [amount] to have us issue you a gym uniform.”

(It’s something between $10-19; I don’t remember. No one told my parents anything about this when they enrolled me at school, and it’s the first I’m hearing about it.)

Me: “I don’t have money on me.”

Gym Teacher: “Well, you can’t participate until you have a uniform. Sit over there on the floor, meanwhile.”

(I do. It’s very uncomfortable sitting on the floor, and makes me feel even more ostracized as a new foreign student. The next school day I bring money my parents gave me. It’s either a $50 or $100 bill; I don’t remember for sure. Being new in the US, I know squat about the local currency and its usage — and I have no idea what’s considered high bills.)

Gym Teacher: “We can’t accept this. This bill is too high and we don’t have change for you. You’ll have to bring us different money. Meanwhile, we can’t issue you a uniform until you pay us for it.”

Me: *thinking* “Gee, thanks so much for not bothering to tell me earlier. It’s not like you had no idea I’m new in the country, or like this high school doesn’t have hundreds of students who are obviously very recent immigrants, and you should have enough experience with that by now to have known to tell us things like that.”

(It took my parents several days to get me smaller bills, as they were very busy with other, actually important, things. Meanwhile, the gym teacher randomly changed her mind about my not participating without a uniform. Running about and playing ball games in jeans was extremely uncomfortable. When I finally had the “right” kind of money to hand over to them, I was told, “Sorry, since it’s the middle of the school year we only have a few things left, only in certain sizes.” So, at 5’3” and 9 pounds, I ended up paying good money to wear an XL size t-shirt for the rest of all my gym classes for all of my high-school years. And yes, it turns out this “gym uniform” they made such a fuss over was nothing more than a t-shirt with the high-school’s logo. I had to provide my own sweatpants, anyway.)

(In my class we have a girl with social anxiety. She’s very nice and friendly but has a hard time doing things in public, like speaking. Our teachers understand the situation and instead of calling her to the blackboard in front of the class, they let her write her answers down and are patient when she stutters. When our math teacher goes on maternity leave, we have a substitute, a middle-aged man.)

Substitute: “Can anyone solve the equation on the board? [Girl]?”

Girl: *starts writing the answer down*

Substitute: “What are you doing? GET UP AND SOLVE THE PROBLEM!”

Me: “Sir, if she goes to the chalkboard she might have a panic attack.”

Substitute: “That’s ridiculous. She’ll never be normal if she receives special treatment because of her ‘problem.’”

(My classmate was visibly upset and tried to explain, as well, but could only stutter. The substitute yelled at her to “speak like a normal person,” which resulted in her crying. After class, one of the other girls escorted her to the bathroom to wash her face and calm down while one of the boys and I went to the principal. They were furious. We had a new substitute the next day, older than the first one, and he was much more understanding.)

During my sophomore year of college, our campus had a bomb scare, not because of a threat, but because of incorrectly stored chemicals. A professor had brought some picric acid into one of the labs and failed to screw the container’s cap on properly. Picric acid is a component of TNT. It’s relatively safe when kept in an aqueous solution, but when it dries it’s highly explosive and can be set off by being jostled. In response, the university cancelled classes and evacuated half of the campus. The cafeteria was also half-closed, and students were shuffled in to eat in small groups, and told to finish as quickly as possible and get out of the “blast zone.” The fire department was called, and they sent in a bomb squad to retrieve the container and detonate it safely.

Later that day, one of the professors found more dried picric acid in the lab, and asked another professor what to do. They just poured water into the container and dumped it down the sink.

(I go to a dinner for honors students at my college. I end up sitting at a table with two of my professors from last semester. One of them, [Professor #1], is known for wild stories about his experiences.)

Professor #1: “Yeah, but we were young and reckless, and ended up losing two scientists.”

Professor #2: “Losing? You don’t mean…?”

Professor #1: “Well, one was trying to find more types of edible mushrooms, and he made a mistake.”

Professor #2: “A mistake?!”

Professor #1: “And another was looking at rocks in a cave when he fell onto a stalactite, or a stalagmite, I guess?”

(I honestly thought he meant they quit, not died!)

(In my music class, the teacher has a very strong hate for smoking, mainly because singing as a career can be ruined because of smoking. One day, the teacher asks for famous singers who died because of their smoking.)

Me: “Nat King Cole.”

Teacher: “Who?”

Me: “Nat King Cole? The guy who sang The Christmas Song, Orange Colored Sky, Night Lights, and Love Me As Though There Were No Tomorrow?”

Teacher: “Never heard of him. Must’ve not been famous.”