It’s the 1990s, and I am the depressed and often bullied child of a single mother. So often (though I’ve become an overachiever later in life) I can’t be bothered.

At school, we have an assignment to make a model of a cell — extra credit if it’s edible and can be shared with the class. 

It’s the morning of the assignment, and I’m eating breakfast.

Mom: “I have to take you now, or you’ll be late.”

Me: “Oh, wait.”

I go to the cupboard and grab the heel of a stale loaf of bread.

Mom: “What—”

Me: “I’m making a plant cell. Give me a minute.”

I grab Cool Whip from the fridge, a couple of plastic baggies, and food coloring, and quickly make squeeze bags. I draw the various organelles, and we rush to school.

Mom: “Why did you make… that?”

Me: “Extra credit!”

I go to class and have to present my cell. I stand in the front, ready to take the abuse I will receive regardless of effort.

Teacher: “That’s disgusting! What is it?”

Me: “You told us to make a diagram of a cell. I was about to explain to the class about the plant cell, using this.”

Teacher: “This is insulting. I expect people to put effort in. Your classmate brought a Jello casserole. Why would you bring a slice of bread?”

Me: “Plant cells are rectangular and fibrous, like this bread. And my classmates had their parents help, or do all of it.”

Teacher: “But… you could have drawn a picture! What is this?”

Me: “This is a stale bread heel with colored Cool Whip. You said you were giving extra credit if we made our project into food to share with the class.”

Teacher: “But that is disgusting! I am not giving you credit. That is obviously not what I meant.”

Me: “I am confident that I have brought enough for everyone who wants some to get a piece.”

Teacher: “What do you mean? It’s one price of bread and twenty students.”

Me: “I could break this into twenty-five in case some people want seconds. But let’s see.” *Looks at the class* “Raise your hand if you want some of this stale bread I’m holding.”

The class looks at me. Some laugh, and some make retching noises. One kid raises his hand.

Me: “Unless anyone else wants this, I’m giving it to that guy. Looks like I had enough to share with everyone who wanted it.”

I give it to the kid. The teacher gives me the stink-eye.

Boy: “This actually isn’t too bad. It’s gross, but I expected worse. I’ll eat it.”

No one liked that kid, either, and this didn’t help him. I don’t remember what happened after that, but I will always be inspired by that audacity whenever I’m doing something last-minute.

Our home economics teacher once let us make pizza. The recipe was for a ham and mushroom pizza.

Classmate: “I don’t like mushrooms. Could I make one with just ham?”

Several of us agreed.

Teacher: “No, you have to follow the recipe exactly, or I won’t be able to tell if you did it right.”

We suggested, y’know, tasting it. Apparently, that was a completely bizarre idea.

But at least the pizza we threw away uneaten was made according to the recipe, I guess.

I’m in class. One kid loudly burps and farts at the same time. This isn’t a quick “bleh” but a really long, drawn-out brrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaapppp, and an equally long, low frrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt. It practically rattles the windows.

The teacher turns and stares at the class.

Teacher: “Who did that?”

We all point at the guilty culprit, who looks very proud of himself.

Teacher: “Look. Normally, I’d send you to the principal for being so disruptive, but… I’ve never had a kid burp and fart that loudly — and simultaneously at that! Go to the nurse so we can figure out what’s wrong with you, and maybe report to the biology department for vivisection after.”

A few months later, I sat with the kid at lunch, and he told me his parents put him on a restrictive diet on the recommendation of the school nurse after that event.

I’ve been a substitute teacher at the same school for about ten years, and I’m one of the favorite subs the district has according to most of the kids. One day, I’m assigned to a class that has two identical twin brothers. I’ve known them for a few years, but despite my best efforts, I simply cannot tell them apart unless they are literally shoulder-to-shoulder in front of me. The twins are Black, and I am white.

We’re between classes when the kids have a few minutes to go to the bathroom or grab something from their locker. I’m standing out in the hallway when [Twin #1] approaches me.

Twin #1: “Hey, Mr. [My Name], can I please go to the bathroom before class?”

Me: “Yes, you may. Which one are you?”

[Twin #1] starts to answer, but then I hear a woman’s voice just behind me.

Woman: “Excuse me? What did you just ask him?”

I turn around and see a middle-aged woman I’ve never met before, at school or anywhere else. She is white, like me. Before [Twin #1] or I can say a word, she continues.

Woman: “Are you racist? Do all African American children look the same to you, so you need to ask ‘which one’ is speaking to you? I may have a word with the school principal about this.”

Just then, [Twin #2] comes out of my classroom and stands next to his brother. The woman splutters a bit and goes beet-red.

Me: “In this case, yes. I have a bit of trouble telling [Twin #1] and [Twin #2] apart. Most people in school do, and it has nothing to do with their race or ethnicity. Can I ask who you are?”

The woman refused to answer, turned on her heel, and started walking toward the office. I gave both twins permission to go to the bathroom and then asked a different teacher who I knew was on their free hour if they could please cover my class for a few minutes. The teacher agreed after I gave a hasty explanation, and I followed the woman to the office to make sure I could defend myself against any accusations she might make.

The woman turned out to be a brand-new substitute teacher, and she did try making a few accusations against me — racism toward Black students, verbal abuse against her, etc. The principal — whom I’ve known for many years, even before I started substitute teaching — didn’t buy a word of it after hearing my side of the story. The woman was invited to rethink her decision to become a substitute teacher and to either learn to figure out the facts before jumping to conclusions or find a different career.

I returned to class and got a high-five from both twins. We still sometimes joke about it whenever I have to ask “which one” of them I’m talking to.

Our history professor includes a ten-minute break in his long lectures. We’ve been talking about technology development in World War II when we go into break. The professor is making small talk with teaching assistants (TAs) and a few students.

TA: “How’s the set-up going?”

Professor: “We’re on track. All the space is cleared, electronics are ready. When the actual tank arrives—”

Student: “When the what arrives?”

Professor: “The tank. It’s not a big one, but my birthday’s coming up, and I wanted—”

Student: “Whoa! What kind?”

Professor: “It’s a 155-gallon saltwater tank. I never knew you were an aquarium enthusiast!”

Student: “Oh… Right, fish.”

The TA looked at the crestfallen student, looked up at the screen at the front of the class showing a WWII Sherman tank, and burst out laughing.