It’s the first day of high school in 1989. Our English teacher is introducing herself to us.

Teacher: “I do things differently in this classroom. I like to shake things up and have some fun. Don’t be surprised if you come in here one day and I’m playing a song by The New Boys On The Street.”

Blank stares.

Student: “Who?”

Teacher: “The New Boys On The Street.”

Student: “Do you mean The New Kids On The Block?”

Teacher: “Um, yeah. Those guys.”

In an attempt to look cool, she managed to look uncool on two different levels.

My mom didn’t believe I was sick when I was in the sixth grade. She said I was faking, made me go to school, and told me not to try to call her at work to come and pick me up. All day long, my teachers would take one look at my face, know that I was sick, and ask if I wanted to go home. I told them what my mom said: “I’m faking, so don’t even try to call her.”

I made it to my sixth period out of eight before my fever spiked, and I basically passed out. My teacher escorted me to the office, where the office staff tried to call my mom at work — she didn’t answer — and then let me sleep for the remaining two hours before school was out. The secretary escorted me to my locker to get my stuff, got me on the bus, and asked one of my classmates who rode the same bus to make sure I got home.

My mom came home, saw that I was practically unconscious again since my fever was at 103, and… got mad at the school for not calling her to let her know I was sick.

Every time she recounts that story, she always leaves out the part where she called me a faker and told me to go to school anyway. On the bright side, she never questioned me again when I said I was sick. Humiliation in knowing she sent her very sick child to school and refused to answer the phone was enough to humble her.

I didn’t want to take an advanced language arts class for my senior year of high school, so I signed up for the standard English 12. I immediately knew I wouldn’t like the class as, in the first week, the teacher started a unit on basic spelling rules.

My classmates and I all knew each other reasonably well, even if we weren’t all friends. One classmate had a slightly unusual name. For this story, I’ll call her Stella, and I’ll call the teacher Mrs. Hale (rhymes with “rail”).

On the first day, Mrs. Hale called the roll.

Mrs. Hale: “Estelle?” (Pronounced “eh-STELL”)

Stella: “Here, but my name is Stella.” (Pronounced “STEL-uh”)

Mrs. Hale: “Oh, all right. I’ll make a note.”

On the second day, Mrs. Hale called the roll.

Mrs. Hale: “Estelle?”

Stella: “It’s Stella.”

On the third day…

Mrs. Hale: “Estelle?”

Stella & Her Friends: “It’s Stella!”

On the fourth day…

Mrs. Hale: “Estelle?”

Most Of The Class: “It’s STELLA!”

This went on through the whole second week until we all kind of gave up, figuring Mrs. Hale would keep mispronouncing Stella’s name no matter what we did. All except me, that is.

At the beginning of the third week, Mrs. Hale explained something to us and wrote examples on the dry-erase board. I raised my hand to point out a minor mistake she had made. She looked at it and insisted she was correct. I showed her information in the textbook to prove otherwise. She just glared at me in an “Are you finished yet?” kind of way. Clearly, I wasn’t going to win that battle, and as a student against a teacher, I was essentially powerless, but I wanted revenge anyway.

Me: “Never mind, Mrs. Hally.” (Rhymes with “rally”)

Mrs. Hale: “My name is Mrs. Hale.”

Me: “I know that, Mrs. Hally.”

Mrs. Hale: “Why are you saying my name like that?”

Me: “Because you refuse to pronounce Stella’s name correctly, even though we have all corrected you several times. So, until you can get my friend’s name right, I will intentionally say your name wrong.”

She glared at me for about a minute and then went on with her lesson (mistakes and all) as if my interruption had never happened.

I called her Mrs. Hally the entire semester. She never got my friend’s name right.

I’m driving a school bus full of high school students, covering for a coworker who’s out sick. As I glance in the student mirror, I see two students throwing something. (Spoiler, for those concerned: it ends up NOT being any sort of bodily fluid or other human excreta.)

I pull the bus over to the shoulder of the road, turn off the engine, and take the keys out of the ignition so I can walk back to where they’re sitting to investigate. As I’m doing this, I see another student touch her hair and remark in a disgusted tone that this has happened “again”. 

I can now see that she’s using her hands to wipe MAYONNAISE out of her hair. I grab a roll of shop towels (essentially very thick paper towels — all our buses have some on board) and give her a few as I walk to the students who threw it. I hand the roll to them.

Me: “I am not moving this bus until you clean up the mayonnaise from the seats and floor.”

One student sighs and reaches for the towels, but the other scoffs at me.

Student #2: “Really? You’re serious?”

Me: *Still holding out the towels* “Yes. I didn’t think I’d have to tell high schoolers not to throw condiments on the school bus, but here we are. You need to clean up your mess, and I’m not moving the bus until you do. I’m paid by the hour; take your time.”

The other student looks like he is about to argue further, but the rest of the school bus quickly shuts him down with calls of, “Come on, I want to get home!” and, “You shouldn’t have done that anyway!” and so on.

Both boys get the mess cleaned up in a couple of minutes — using all the towels in the process — and put the dirty towels in the bus trash can. When they’re back in their seats, I start the bus and get everyone home. I hear a few students commenting that they’re surprised I was actually watching their behavior, and they are relieved that I’m not putting up with nonsense.

I also drive that same route the following morning. When the two students who threw the mayonnaise get on, I greet them with a smile.

Me: “Good morning! Is all food securely stored in your backpack?”

Students: *Resigned* “Yes.”

Me: “Fantastic. Thank you. I brought two new rolls of shop towels. I assume I won’t have to give you any, though.”

They behaved for me. I hope they continued to when their regular driver returned!

Related:
A Big Mayo No No, Part 9
A Big Mayo No No, Part 8
A Big Mayo No No, Part 7
A Big Mayo No No, Part 6
A Big Mayo No No, Part 5

When I attended university, I did a Creative Writing degree. In my first year, we had regular sessions with a local poet who would take various classes related to poetry or verse. This wasn’t my favourite element of the program, but I still found that some of the writing exercises were interesting.

During one class, he turned his attention to music and how song lyrics themselves are considered a form of poetry. To demonstrate this, he decided to play “I Wish Was A Punk Rocker” by Sandi Thom. Admittedly, this is not the song I would’ve chosen, but still, I could see why he gravitated toward it.

At the end of the song, one student in my class — a quiet, very introverted guy — suddenly stood up looking extremely offended and clenching both fists.

Student: “Are you kidding me? Why the h*** would you choose this song as an example? SANDI THOM IS NOT MUSIC! G**D*** IT!”

Then, he proceeded to storm out of the room and slam the door, leaving his bag and belongings behind. There was a very stunned silence afterward until the poet finally spoke.

Poet: “So… moving on from that…”

We never found out why [Student] was so offended by that choice, and he never explained his outburst ever again. One of the students mentioned that he’d gone to school with [Student] previously, and he was apparently known for pulling stunts like that and getting upset about random things. I’ve never been able to listen to that song the same way since!