(I work in the main IT department for my university. We handle issues over the phone and in person. In our call center, there is a phone that is a direct line to each classroom. We call it the “Bat Phone.” If a professor has an issue, they simply pick up the phone, and we can troubleshoot or send someone onsite. This happens to my coworker.)

Professor: “Someone needs to come right now! I’ve dropped the mouse behind the desk and I can’t get to it now!”

Coworker: “Ma’am, the mouse is attached to the computer with a wire; you can just pick up the mouse by the wire.”

Professor: “No! Someone needs to come help me! I’m no good with computers. I don’t want to pull on the wrong wire. Plus, I’m left-handed! I can’t deal with this sort of thing!”

Coworker: *completely dumbfounded at the amount of stupidity* “I’ll be right over.”

(Due to a diagnosis of a math disability, I am held back in math classes throughout school. Because of math prerequisites, I’m only able to take the “soft” science classes in high school. One of these is astronomy. You would not expect this to be an easy, math-light class, but it is the way this teacher teaches it.)

Teacher: *at the beginning of the year* “There’s going to be a big project you design yourself, which will account for half of your grade. You need to work up a project proposal and have me approve it. Some work time will be given during class, but also expect to be working on this project outside of class, independently. There are certain requirements the project needs to meet, but I’ll outline those at a later date.”

(He gives us research time in the library, and I write up a proposal for a big research paper on black holes and get his signed approval. Throughout the semester, he gives us research time and study periods, but does not give us the mysterious requirements the project needs to meet, despite my pestering him repeatedly. After borrowing a friend’s physics textbook and reading up texts our own library doesn’t provide, I write a very long and intensive report that I finish within a few weeks of the end of the semester. It’s a thick research paper, and it includes my own illustrations of physics principles, with detailed explanations of math I supposedly should not be able to deal with. The work is entirely my own. Nervous that it will not meet the arbitrary guidelines the teacher never gave, I approach him with my half-inch thick paper in hand.)

Me: “We’re almost at the deadline, and I finished my project, but I wanted to make sure it fit the requirements. Did I miss where you gave those?”

Teacher: “Oh. Well. Since I never really got around to it, and we didn’t talk in class about the project, I just kind of decided to drop it, so you guys don’t need to do that.”

Me: “But you said it was worth half our grade! I spent all semester working on this!”

Teacher: “That’s… You really didn’t need to…”

Me: “You will accept this research project for some kind of grade.”

(I glared at him, and with barely 100 pounds of fury, I pushed the thick paper at him. He meekly accepted it. He took it as extra credit, and I got an A+ in the class, but to this day I’m not sure he actually read it. These kinds of incidents killed my faith in the American education system.)

(I am studying microbiology at university. We have a practical class in which we have to spread bacteria onto an agar plate. To do this, we have to suck up some of the bacterial solution, place it on top of the agar, and spread it around using a spreader. The spreader is a glass rod, with the end twisted into a triangle shape, the bottom of the triangle being a flat edge that we can push the solution around with. Before using it, we have to sterilise the spreader. We do this by dipping it into a glass of ethanol, shaking off the excess liquid, then passing it through the flame of a bunsen burner. I accidentally get the order of operations mixed up. I dip the spreader, pass it through the flame, then shake the excess liquid off. The excess liquid is now, of course, little fireballs, and I shake them off into a half-full beaker of flammable liquid. I don’t notice for a few seconds, because the flame in the beaker is so transparent, but as soon as I do, I call for the teacher.)

Me: “Mr. [Teacher].”

(He is speaking to the class and doesn’t seem to hear me, so I get louder.)

Me: “Mr. [Teacher]!”

(Still speaking to the class, he is obviously ignoring me and annoyed about being interrupted, so I scream out.)

Me: “Mr. [Teacher]! FIRE!”

(He turns and immediately puts the fire out. The next year, I obtain a job assisting in practical lab sessions for younger students. I am assigned to the same class I had taken the year before and notice something different. They are using disposable plastic spreaders instead of the glass. I asked the same teacher about it.)

Teacher: “Yeah, we had to change because some idiot tried to set the lab on fire last year.”

(I’m a student in the 11th grade, and this semester, two of my classes happen to be in the same hall, so I carry around a book-bag with both class books in it so I don’t have to go back upstairs to switch them out. I have really bad anxiety, so I try my best not to be late for my history class, which is right after photography, since the teacher is very strict and has it out for me already. I leave class right after the bell rings and head down to my class, as I don’t have anything else to do. When I arrive, the door is open as students from the last class are leaving, and my teacher is talking to another teacher, so I walk in and wait for the others to arrive to set up the table. After a couple minutes, the other teacher leaves, my teacher turns to me, and the following exchange occurs:)

Teacher: “You realize that you came into class thirty seconds after the bell rang?”

Me: *confused, and not quite sure what he’s getting at* “Yeah?”

Teacher: “Where were you?”

Me: “In class. It’s right down the hall from yours.”

Teacher: “Yeah, I know, but you’re still here early. Why?”

Me: *getting even more confused, as he’s annoyed that I was on time* “I didn’t want to get yelled at for being late.”

Teacher: “Well, don’t do it again. You don’t need to be so early all the time.”

(I was very confused by the end, as it was the first time that I had ever been told off for being on time. Maybe next time I’ll just walk in late and actually give him a reason to get mad at me.)

(There’s a girl in my year at school that no one really likes, due to the lengths she goes to just to get attention. If you don’t immediately rush to her and shower her with attention, she tends to try some pretty crazy things to make sure you will. Many of us believe she may have a learning disability, not because of how she acts, but because of how the teachers treat her, and the fact that she’s in a special class with only one or two other students. I’m in the library during lunch one day, minding my own business, when a teacher comes up to me with a pretty large scowl.)

Teacher: “Phone. Now.”

(He holds his hand out expectantly, glaring at me. I just stare at him.)

Me: “What? What’s going on?”

Teacher: “Just hand it over, missy. You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

(Confused and slightly worried, I get my phone from my bag and hand it to him. He turns it on and starts scrolling through something. Due to the angle, and him being much taller than me, I can’t see what he’s looking at and just stand there as he slowly starts looking angrier and angrier.)

Teacher: “So, you deleted them, did you?! Rather than own up to your actions, you’d rather be a spiteful coward and hide the evidence?”

Me: “What are you talking about?! Evidence to what?!”

(I don’t get a response as he simply drags me outside the library to “talk.”)

Teacher: “Listen, missy. We have no patience for your kind here at [School]. Since we’ve had no trouble from you before, we’ll give you two choices. Own up and simply get a suspension, or keep lying and we’ll have to get the police involved.”

(Now I’m majorly freaking out. I have no idea what he’s talking about, and he doesn’t seem to want to tell me.)

Me: *stammering* “W-what?”

(The teacher sighs heavily, looking at me like I’m a misbehaving toddler, and gives me back my phone.)

Teacher: “I can see you’re not going to cooperate. Cyber-bullying is dealt with severely; you should know that. I expect you in my office first thing tomorrow, ready to face the consequences.”

(He leaves, and I end up bursting into tears in the hallway. Leaving my stuff behind, I head home and burst through the front door in hysterics, much to the worry of my mother. It takes a while, but I manage to tell her what happened, and she is furious. She sends me to call my grandmother, a policewoman, and tell her what happened.  My mother phones the school, then goes in with me the next morning. She takes me to the teacher’s office and glares him down.)

Teacher: *obviously uncomfortable* “Ah, Miss [My Last Name], I do hope you’ve calmed down.”

Mum: *icily* “I’m perfectly calm, thank you. Now, are you going to finally explain the reasoning behind you threatening my 12-year-old daughter with the police, or do I have to take this issue higher up?”

Teacher: “We’ve received several complaints from [Problem Girl], along with a series of screenshots of texts messages that show [My Name] has been cyber-bullying her quite viciously for the past week. It’s rather disgraceful that anyone would bully [Problem Girl], and we won’t take this lightly.”

Mum: “What?! [My Name] would never do that.”

Teacher: *sternly* “Well, it’s quite obvious that she did.”

(My mum looks about ready to slap him, slamming my phone down on his desk.)

Mum: “And what proof do you have that those screenshots aren’t fake?! Any fool could send them to herself!”

(The teacher opens his mouth to respond when [Problem Girl] bursts into the room, wailing dramatically.)

Problem Girl: “Mr. [Teacher]! I just got more messages from [My Name]! She’s getting really mean now!”

(The three of us look at her, then at my phone, which is still on the desk.)

Teacher: “When did you get these new messages?”

Problem Girl: “Just now! See?!”

(She thrusts her phone towards the teacher. The time the messages were sent was barely a minute ago, when I hadn’t even been in touching distance with anything capable of texting her.)

Teacher: *extremely uncomfortable* “[Problem Girl], that’s impossible.”

Problem Girl: “What?! Are you saying I’m lying?!”

Mum: *cutting the teacher off* “Given that my daughter hasn’t had anything electronic during the time you got those messages, yes.” *turning to the teacher with a death glare*

(The teacher promptly waved us from his office and my mum took me home, refusing to let me into school until everything was sorted. It turns out, the girl had sent the messages to herself in order to get me in trouble. Why? I hadn’t believed her when she faked being pregnant and had called her out on it. My mum and I got a profuse apology from the head-teacher, and I believe the teacher got suspended for a week, but the girl was never punished.)