The most memorable savage thing I remember a teacher doing is yelling “whaddya, stupid?” with a thick Boston accent, at a student in an AP chemistry class.
Coming in out of nowhere here, but if it was anything like my school, probably turning on a bench-mounted gas tap without a Bunsen burner attached, pulling out a lighter and creating a horizontal roaring blade of flame that was difficult to turn off.
This sort of thing fills the child in me with glee, but it’s incredibly stupid and dangerous and definitely worthy of a “corrective” exclamation.
It’s AP chem. There’s a lot in that vein. There was a parking space that everyone knew not to park in as our teacher would use it to create incendiary or explosive fun, every Friday.
Second grade, Catholic school, 1976. I’m standing in front of the class with some other students, writing cursive lower-case “l’s” on the chalkboard. I am apparently not doing it right. The teacher comes over to me, grabs my cheek between her fingers, and shakes my head around while berating me.
This is not where the story ends.
At the end of the school day, I go to the office before my mom picks me up to go home, and tell the principal what happened. I kind of get the brush off, go climb into the back seat of my mom’s yellow 1972 Cutlass, and go home.
This is not where the story ends.
Next day, I’m in class again, having mostly forgotten the previous day’s nonsense. The principal shows up in the doorway and beckons me and the teacher into the hallway. Now I am fully reminded of the previous day, and kind of looking forward to what’s about to happen.
Principal says to the teacher, “This young man tells me that you did this to him yesterday.” – grabbing my cheek and shaking my head around. Teacher: “No, I did not do this to him.” – grabbing my cheek and shaking my head around. “Are you certain you didn’t do this to him?” “I am quite certain I didn’t do this to him.”
I was six years old. For a brief moment here, I was unable to recall the teacher’s name, but it has returned to me: Mrs. Blattner. Having to deal with the principal on many more occasions through 8th grade, I will always remember what a worthless piece of shit Warren Smith was. I am quite certain they are both dead now, and the world is a better place for it.
I seem to recall being chided by the teacher in kindergarten for not being able to tie my shoes. I suppose that counts as a “test”?
You wanna talk about savage things teachers sometimes say to students?
I had an art teacher in middle school, who said something to the effect of “Sometimes the point of art class is so you can learn you can’t do art.”
In her defense, it was one hideous clay mask.
The most memorable savage thing I remember a teacher doing is yelling “whaddya, stupid?” with a thick Boston accent, at a student in an AP chemistry class.
Any chance you remember what the student did?
Coming in out of nowhere here, but if it was anything like my school, probably turning on a bench-mounted gas tap without a Bunsen burner attached, pulling out a lighter and creating a horizontal roaring blade of flame that was difficult to turn off.
This sort of thing fills the child in me with glee, but it’s incredibly stupid and dangerous and definitely worthy of a “corrective” exclamation.
It’s AP chem. There’s a lot in that vein. There was a parking space that everyone knew not to park in as our teacher would use it to create incendiary or explosive fun, every Friday.
No, sorry.
Rats. Was hoping to hear a hilarious story about a mostly-accidental explosion. That must have been a very boring AP Chem.
My teacher was a total pyro.
No, it definitely wasn’t something like that, unfortunately: she was just lecturing and he answered a question wrong.
(If it had involved an explosion I probably would’ve remembered the circumstances better, LOL!)
Okay, now I have to tell this story.
Second grade, Catholic school, 1976. I’m standing in front of the class with some other students, writing cursive lower-case “l’s” on the chalkboard. I am apparently not doing it right. The teacher comes over to me, grabs my cheek between her fingers, and shakes my head around while berating me.
This is not where the story ends.
At the end of the school day, I go to the office before my mom picks me up to go home, and tell the principal what happened. I kind of get the brush off, go climb into the back seat of my mom’s yellow 1972 Cutlass, and go home.
This is not where the story ends.
Next day, I’m in class again, having mostly forgotten the previous day’s nonsense. The principal shows up in the doorway and beckons me and the teacher into the hallway. Now I am fully reminded of the previous day, and kind of looking forward to what’s about to happen.
Principal says to the teacher, “This young man tells me that you did this to him yesterday.” – grabbing my cheek and shaking my head around. Teacher: “No, I did not do this to him.” – grabbing my cheek and shaking my head around. “Are you certain you didn’t do this to him?” “I am quite certain I didn’t do this to him.”
I was six years old. For a brief moment here, I was unable to recall the teacher’s name, but it has returned to me: Mrs. Blattner. Having to deal with the principal on many more occasions through 8th grade, I will always remember what a worthless piece of shit Warren Smith was. I am quite certain they are both dead now, and the world is a better place for it.