Share Your Best Tales of Back-to-School Triumph and Humiliation

Illustration for article titled Share Your Best Tales of Back-to-School Triumph and Humiliation

After Labor Day, students and teachers across the country will be headed back to classrooms for the beginning of a new school year. For some, this time of the year is brimming with opportunity. (What will you learn? Who will you meet?) For others, it’s a time of dread. (What WILL you learn? WHO will you meet?) The first day of school is always exciting and we want to hear your best stories—whether you were a teacher or a pupil—of classroom woe. Or joy! (But mostly woe.)

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Here are a few anonymous submissions from the staff of Gawker Media:

On my first day of kindergarten, I pooped and I asked my teacher to wipe me and she said, “We don’t do that here.”

First day of school: “Where are all the black people?” -me

This lucky duck:

I went to a new school and a girl from my old school sent a girl from new school a note saying that I was great and the girl was really popular and I became instantly popular.

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This less lucky duck:

My first day of american school, I called a girl greedy because she wouldn’t share the ball and it was one of the three English words I knew. She told the teacher I had called her the n-word, so i was up in the office crying and trying to explain myself in Russian.

And this wunderkind:

I was four when I started first grade and there was a bathroom in our classroom and I sang myself an extended song in it and when I left the bathroom, the teacher had to remind me that other people could hear me singing, not just me. I don’t think my brain was developed enough to understand that concept, which is proof that I should not have been in school.

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But before we get into your classroom stories, here are the winners of last week’s Pissing Contest, Your Most Bizarre Experience at a Funeral or Wake.

As a Former Fetus, I Oppose Abortion (Funeral Ceremonies) by Green Pig:

Shortly after I moved to Atlanta, one of my co-worker’s daughters got pregnant at age 16 and somehow managed to have an abortion without parental knowledge or consent.

When my co-worker found out she hit the roof; she didn’t even realize her daughter was pregnant, let alone had an abortion on the sly.

My co-worker arranged for a memorial service at her church for her aborted grandchild - flowers, tiny casket, priest delivering a eulogy - the works. I went through the receiving line, but did not stay for the service.

Regardless of your stand on abortion, the memorial was over-the-top creepy, and personally I think was done to shame the daughter.

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Mortician’s Delight by PRD:

FTW: my husband and I went to our former boss’ mother’s funeral. After his sister read a ‘poem’ about their mother—which was just a ten minute long list of things she liked (She liked the color blue. She liked smoking cigarettes...)- our former boss stepped to the front of the room and hit play on a small, old school boom box.

He had recorded a free style rap for his mother, which he performed and sang the chorus for, and played it for all the mourners. She has passed of lung cancer, and the most shocking line was something to the affect of “I told you to stop smoking but you didn’t, look at you now-six feet under.” Haven’t seen him since.

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Thou Shall Not Steal Your Parishioner’s Eulogy by MEtheBarbarian:

This story is one that happened to a friend’s family. My friend’s father is an incredibly well-spoken, intelligent guy, so when his father died, he was chosen to give the eulogy.

On the morning of the service, the priest comes up to him and asks to see his speech, so he “won’t go over any of the same areas”. He gladly hands it over, and the preist later returns it.

Fast forward to the service. The priest gets up and word for word STEALS THE ENTIRE EULOGY. My friend’s poor father had to scribble down a whole new one in a few minutes while this horrible man laid claim to his original. They were PISSED.

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They Eat Your Eyes, They Collapse Your Nose by thesquarerootof:

I am going to keep this one short and sweet.

My uncle died when I was 9. He was only 36. He was in a horrific car crash and frankly it was odd that there was an open casket viewing for the funeral, because it required extensive reconstruction for it to work, but my papa insisted, so we did it.

While it was uncanny enough that he looked like a weird combo of post nose job Michael Jackson and Mel Gibson, he looked enough like himself to bring those who viewed him closure.

That is, until my 12 year old cousin Holly (name changed), unable to control her impulses, reached down and squeezed his nose, causing part of it to collapse.

She honked his nose like a clown nose. And it collapsed. In front of me.

20 years later, I’m still traumatized.

CONGRATS, EVERYONE.

Now grab your books, straighten your knee socks, and sharpen your pencils. We’re going back to school!

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Contact the author at madeleine@jezebel.com.

Image via Harry Potter/Warner Bros.

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DISCUSSION

So, when I was in kindergarten, I wasn’t allowed to carry an umbrella on the bus.

Why is this, you ask?

When my mother and I were shopping for my first-day-of-school outfit, I had the option of picking whatever accessory I wanted to complete my ensemble, and I chose a lacy parasol like the one in the Mary Poppins “jolly holiday” scene. It was freaking adorbs. So, on my first day of school, I had an adorable blue floral dress with white tights and Mary Janes and my lacy parasol. And I. was. pumped. I was especially pumped about my parasol.

So, most of the day goes mostly fine. I behaved myself fairly well, and made it to the bus ride home without incident. However, on the bus, the boy sitting in front of me was making fun of my “lame umbrella” and calling me stupid for carrying an umbrella on a sunny day. I very primly told him, each time, that he was wrong. I was carrying a parasol, which was to keep the sun out of my eyes and to complete my ensemble. This kid just would not give up calling me stupid and calling my parasol an umbrella. Finally, I’d had enough, and whacked him on the forehead with my parasol. Then he called me a butthead with a lame umbrella, at which point I, naturally, leapt to his seat and proceeded to repeatedly inform him that “It’s. Not. An. Umbrella. It’s. a. Parasol. It. Completes. My. Ensemble.” with each word punctuated by a swift pound from said parasol.

The bus driver stopped the bus, pulled me off him, and made me sit at the front of the bus with her. Then, when we arrived at my house, she escorted me to my waiting mother and informed her that I would no longer be allowed to carry an umbrella because I’d used my umbrella today to beat up a boy on the bus, so I’d forfeited my umbrella privileges. Every time she said “umbrella,” in reference to my parasol, my Mom said, “actually, it’s a parasol.” Bus driver lady gave no shits, and continued to call it an umbrella.

Of course, my parents gave me a good talking to and explained that it’s not right to beat people up just because they make fun of me. They, however, didn’t give me any punishment beyond what the bus driver had already decided upon, because I was mortified at never being able to carry my beloved parasol to school again. I later found out that they also were having a really hard time being serious with me regarding this incident because they were so amused by their precious, proper little lady beating a snot nosed little jerk with a lacy parasol, and it had become something of an inside joke between the two of them.