Twenty years ago, one of my community college students wrote an essay about a day so busy that she forgot to pick up her seven-year-old daughter at school.
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Twenty years ago, one of my community college students wrote an essay about a day so busy that she forgot to pick up her seven-year-old daughter at school.
“A lion, a goat, and a bundle of grass,” said my teacher, her face like a shut gate. “A person has to ferry them across the river in a boat.”
Miss Harvey announced that Bobby’s parents wanted to dedicate a tree for him. He was in our class before he died.
I had one of those trendy layered haircuts common in the ’80s, but it required precise curling every morning.
I saw the tiny bright pink pill slide from the pocket of his khaki pants and onto his seat, then drop to the floor next to his desk.
I always had to try something once. Just to see.
Charcoal sticks scuffed as he ambled, then stopped near my elbow. “You have lovely lips.” The scuffing slowed.
Education courses didn’t prepare me for the Freshman Who Still Hasn’t Discovered Deodorant.
I was doing what one does at a urinal in a Slamdance Film Festival party venue bathroom when a guy ran in yelling, "Everyone out! I gotta go!"