At the start of my final year of high school, the school makes us all undertake a week of work experience. As I want to study law at university, I go to a local criminal solicitors’ firm. On my last day, one of the solicitors suggests I might be interested in going to a sentencing with him. On the way to the court, he tells me the client’s name and that they’re being sentenced for mugging someone. He parks the car, and we get out and start to head up the steps outside the court.

Solicitor: “Ah, that’s the family on the steps. Come on, we’d better go say hello. It’s polite and, you know, we’ll have to lend a bit of emotional support. I’ll also check they’re okay with you shadowing.”

Me: “Got it.”

I obediently follow him to a huddled group. As we approach, they fan out and say hello. I glance at them and then frown because one woman seems weirdly familiar. The woman is staring at me, as well.

Solicitor: “Hi, all. I just thought I’d come over and–”

Woman: “Don’t you go to my school?”

Everyone pauses and looks at me.

Me: *Very meekly* “Hi, Mrs. [Woman].”

It turned out that the client was the nephew of a teacher at my school. I hadn’t had any classes with her, so the surname hadn’t really rung a bell. Her family was incredibly lovely about me being there, saying it was at least nice that one of the teacher’s students could get some good out of it, but the teacher didn’t come into the courtroom — I think because I was there. For the remainder of the year, whenever we passed each other in the corridor, we couldn’t quite look each other in the eye.

I am tasked with taking a video inventory of my entire school. This worries the other teachers, as a lot of their classroom supplies are their personal property, not the district’s. I assure them that this is just for insurance purposes, and they have nothing to worry about. The day before I’m to begin the inventory, I send this email.

Email: “I know I’ve previously stated that the video inventory will not affect anything you personally own in your classroom. However, I have received word from the central office that anything on the recording will be considered district property. Please remove all personal furniture, books, posters, supplies, etc., from your rooms by the end of the day. See me if you have any questions.”

A few minutes later a teacher, who’s probably been in the same classroom for twenty years, comes storming into my room. She’s livid.

Teacher: “Do you have any idea how much personal equipment I have in my classroom? Do you have any idea how impossible it’s going to be for me to move it all out? Do you want to go down there right now and have a look?”

Me: “Look, let’s deal with this logically. First of all, what’s today’s date?”

Teacher: “April… first.” *Pause* “You son of a b****.”

Another teacher left a pile of feathers on my desk, with a note saying the tar was coming soon.

(I’m in sixth grade in this story and everyone in my class has been assigned a presentation on a body in the solar system. It is my turn.)

Me: “For my presentation, I studied Jupiter’s moon, Io.”

Teacher: “Okay. And how do you spell that?”

Me: “I… O…”

Teacher: “Oh.”

(She didn’t ask me any other questions.)

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(I am working as an online English teacher for kids in China. Sometimes during a lesson, a kid might not understand what he is supposed to do. The most direct explanation would be to explain it in Chinese; however, there are three reasons why this is the last resort. The class is supposed to be immersive and the students should not hear or speak Chinese during the lessons. My Chinese is not good enough to carry on a conversation. Despite my best efforts, my accent confuses kids who have not had much English experience and they think my Chinese is just more English they do not understand. Here is an example of what can happen when I resort to Chinese.)

Me: *circling the fire truck on the screen* “What is this?”

Boy: “What… is this?”

Me: “No, no… What is this?”

Boy: “What is this?”

Me: “No…” *still circling the firetruck* “Zhege shi shenma?” *“This one is what?”*

Boy: “Zhega shi shenma…”

Father: *laughing and saying in Chinese* “No, the teacher is trying to speak to you in Chinese. He is asking you what this is.”

Boy: *sheepish chuckling* “Oh, oh, oh… It’s a firetruck.”

(The rest of the class proceeded much easier as he got better at recognizing the receptive language. It’s nice when there is an English-proficient parent around to bail me out.)

(On my senior trip to an amusement park, due to the fact it’s a school-related trip, we have to do something educational before having free reign. The last thing we do of our educational part involves a math problem where we’re to only use roman numerals — no 1 or 5, it has to be I or V. We’re also not given a key for keeping the numerals straight, so I decide to use a loophole and scribble my own key “I: one,” “V: five,” and so on since they never said we couldn’t do it that way.)

Staff Member: *looking at my paper, pointing at my key* “What’re those scribbles?”

Me: *jokingly, though I admit my tone may have been unclear* “What? You don’t doodle when you think?”

Staff Member: *leans in* “Don’t be a smarta**.”

(To be honest, it’s probably one of my favorite memories of the trip.)