In college, I’m taking a class on the history and cultures of North Africa with a professor who was born in Algeria. We have a typical aggressive, argumentative know-it-all in class who regularly questions our professor when he thinks something is wrong.

The next class after our first test, our professor asks if anyone has any questions about their scores. Mr. Know-it-All raises his hand.

Professor: “Yes, what is your question?”

Mr. Know-it-All: “You marked my answer for question number six as wrong, but I don’t think it is.”

Professor: “Please remind me what your answer was?”

Question number six was something like, “Why is the African coast of the Mediterranean Sea known as the Barbary Coast?” It should be simple, but…

Mr. Know-it-All: “I wrote that the Barbary Coast was called that because of the pirates that used to be there. The pirates had a reputation as barbarians, so that’s why they called it the Barbary Coast. Barbarian, Barbary.”

Professor: “Ah, I see. The Barbary Coast was not named after simple barbarians, but after the Berber people who lived throughout North Africa. Do you see?”

Mr. Know-it-All: “That’s not right, though. The people who lived there were Tuaregs, like the Volkswagen Tuareg that was named after them.”

Professor: “The Tuareg were only one group of Berbers. Think of it like this. In Europe, all people are known as Europeans, but there are several different types of Europeans, like French or English or German. In North Africa, it is the same way; all people together are Berber, but there are many different groups of Berber, like the Tuareg or the Kabyles. Do you see?”

Mr. Know-it-All: “Well, no. I’ve never heard the word Berber before. I just think…”

Professor: “Then perhaps you need to come to class more often? All this month has been about the Berber people, and I have told you several times that I myself am Berber, of the Kabyle people. Now, you may please be quiet, or you may leave for the day and return when you are ready to learn about my people and others in North Africa. That is all. Does anyone else have questions?”

Mr. Know-it-All sat back and pouted for the rest of the class and continued to pout throughout the semester, but he never tried to openly challenge our professor again. Meanwhile, the rest of us students couldn’t help but be impressed by how our professor shut him down so completely, and he quickly became a favorite professor for many of us, me included.

My sixth-grade English teacher was one of my most favorite teachers that I’ve ever had. I’ve always loved reading, so I always looked forward to quiet reading time in class, especially since she let us bring our own books. One of her quirks was that she threw cows at people. That is not a turn of phrase; she had a basket of little plush cows on her desk, and if you were sleeping or goofing off in class, you could expect to be bonked with one. It was hilarious and probably not something she could get away with today.

When I read at my desk, I liked to sit forward with my head tilted down and my chin resting in my hand. My eyes are heavy-lidded, so it can look like they’re closed when my head’s tilted down or forward.

One day, during quiet reading time, I was sitting this way and I noticed [Teacher] looking at me out of the corner of my eye. I ignored it until I saw her frown, shake her head, and reach for a cow. I realized she thought I was asleep a split second before the cow was launched — and her aim was DEADLY.

Without thinking, I took my chin from my hand, caught the bovine projectile one-handed, put it on my desk next to me, and resumed my reading position without lifting my eyes from my book.

Teacher: *Clearly startled* “Oh! I thought… Well then, my apologies. Cow withdrawn!”

I laughed and kept reading. Seriously, I loved Mrs. H so much!

I did ballet for ten years, from age six to age fifteen. I remember my teachers yelling at my class to fix their movements and postures.

While doing barre work:

Teacher: “Don’t lift your leg too high; you look like a dog going potty.”

During “The Nutcracker” rehearsals:

Teacher: “Cows stomp. Horses stomp. Angels do not stomp.”

While doing arm exercises:

Teacher: “Your arms look like chicken wings. Pretend your arms are like clothing hangers.”

Doing pliés, where you put your heels together and bend your knees:

Teacher: “Pretend that you are a merry-go-round going up and down. You have a glass of water on your head.”

Our library is in an area with a substantial proportion of immigrants, so we have a large selection of media for adults learning Swedish: language courses, grammar books in several languages, easy-to-read books, bilingual books, etc. 

A patron who’s learning the language from scratch and is still very much a beginner comes up and asks for “classics” she needs to read for a language class. I show her our shelf of easy-to-read classics — mostly nineteenth-century and early twentieth-century stuff adapted for beginners — but she shakes her head.

Patron: “No, not easy-read. Teacher say must be original to learn language and Swedish culture.”

She shows me the list of classics that the teacher says are required reading for a beginner’s language course: “The Iliad,” “The Odyssey,” “Don Quixote,” and “The Divine Comedy,” all with “original” underlined. That’s all. I can only assume this teacher Googled “classic literature” and decided that somehow, the best way to learn Swedish culture is by reading about mad Spanish noblemen and Greek gods.

Me: “Are you sure? These are very good, but the language in them…”

She shakes her head in the international sign of “I’m surrounded by idiots.”

Patron: “I know. Teacher say we must.”

Me: “Okay. Let me show you where those are.”

Sadly, we didn’t have the original in Ionic Greek, but she picked a 1908 translation of “The Iliad” in hexameter that most Swedes struggle to read, and I asked her to pass on my phone number to the teacher to help out with their next required reading list. I never heard from the teacher, but the patron has been back to borrow books that are more on her language level and her Swedish is improving a lot.

This story takes place in the early 2000s. It’s the first day of school, and I make it to my first class with a few minutes to spare, so I choose my seat and set myself up comfortably to be ready as soon as possible when class actually starts. The teacher comes in, greets us, and begins the lesson. After a couple of minutes, I raise my hand.

Teacher: “Yes?”

Me: “I don’t think I’m supposed to be here. My schedule says I have math, not history.”

Teacher: “Oh, that class was moved. But I’ll let you stay if you can change the homepage on my computer. Right now, it’s set to [sexually explicit URL].”

The class all burst out laughing, but I knew how to do what he was asking, so I sat at the computer and brought up his web browser. Sure enough, it opened to [sexually explicit URL]. Much to several classmates’ disappointment, it displayed nothing but a “page not available” error. I showed the teacher how to change his homepage and then I went back to my seat and zoned out for the rest of the class. I made it to the rest of my classes just fine and was given directions to my math class.