Almost everyone has that one moment where they felt totally disrespected by a teacher that they will never forget. Teachers have a lot of influence over the young minds they mold. Most of the time that influence is positive and encouraging but now and then there is a run in with a bad apple. These Quora users shared the rudest thing a teacher has ever said to them.
Content has been edited for clarity.
Not A Peaceful Meditation
“To say it was rude would be an understatement.
I say it was cruel.
I was in class 6. It was cold—teeth cluttering, fingers numbing cold. Our school commenced at 7am. From 7 am to 8 am, we had our yoga sessions on the school ground. Students were required to bring in their own yoga mattresses. They weren’t allowed to share.
It skipped my mind to carry my mattress one day. I was already suffering from cough and cold. As I was a very timid child back then, I meekly approached my class teacher and informed her of my situation. I was sure in my mind that she would excuse me with a warning.
But she said ‘How could you forget the mat. That is very irresponsible. Perform yoga on the bare floor.’
I tried to argue but she won’t adhere.
I told her I suffered from cold.
I told her that I have to remove my blazer for doing yoga and the floor is pinching cold.
I told her I won’t ever forget to carry a mat.
I told her but she did not adhere.
That experience of performing yoga on a bare, cold floor without a blazer or a sweater taught me two things. Never respect that teacher. Never forget a mat.”
When Ya Gotta Go, Ya Gotta Go.
“Imagine this. Tenth grade me, is sitting in those plastic, blue desk chairs, wearing my school uniform. My science teacher iss about to hand out our final exams, which will last about 3–4 hours. I’m nervous, but trying to listen to the same carbon-copy prayer that all the teachers read before every exam, when suddenly…
I just got my period.
Okay, I think to myself, don’t panic. Wait until he’s finished praying, and ask to use the washroom.
Now, keep in mind, the girl that sat perched in that wobbly chair was not the same outspoken woman that she is today. Having my period – especially in front of my classmates, during an exam – was mortifying to me. I was not about to get up and proclaim to the world ‘I AM ON MY PERIOD!’
As he handed out the final exams, I quietly raised my hand. He asked me what is wrong, and I explained I neededto use the washroom.
He said ‘no’ and sat at his desk.
Fine, I thought. I began to write. About an hour into the exam I could feel that, well, I definitely need to use the washroom. So, I quietly raised my hand and asked again.
I swear to this day, his glare could have melted Captain America’s shield.
‘I know what your game is. You just want to go to the bathroom so you can cheat.’ He said aloud, prompting the entire class to raise their heads and watch the ensuing drama.
‘I… I… I just need to use the washroom, sir. I’m bleeding, and you can send someone with me.’ I was so nervous I’m fairly certain my heart was going to jump out of my chest. I want to point out, students were allowed to go to the washroom with a monitor during exams, so I hadn’t expected this to be a big deal.
‘YOU JUST WANT TO CHEAT! Don’t LIE TO ME, girl! One more word out of your mouth you’ll be happy I give you a zero!’
I was so mad. But I shut my trap, finished my final (2.5 hours later) and stood up. By this time, a small puddle of blood lay pooling in my chair, my skirt was stained, and blood ran down my legs. As I stood up to hand my final in, my teacher noticed the mess.
‘That’s disgusting!’ He proclaimed. My classmates echoed his sentiment.
‘Maybe if you’d let me use the washroom you wouldn’t need to clean it up.’ I stated, and walked out of the room, blood squishing in my shoes.
I aced that final out of pure spite, I’m pretty sure.”
She Didn’t Have To Draw Attention To It
“Back in sixth grade I had to sing a song together with my classmates for a Christmas play.
The girls were all standing in the front of the group, while the boys were in the back; and then you had me.
I was standing as close as possible to the wall, desperately trying not to be filmed by a camera or seen by someone.
I was shaking. Anxiety was quickly taking control over my body, causing me to sweat while everybody else was freezing. I was clenching both of my hands, scratching the skin of my palms with my nails.
And this, my friends, is how shy students feel during class.
I looked like a weirdo, but at that time I didn’t care at all; who would care about anything except how to breathe properly during a panic attack?
And then, it hit me; her words were echoing through the vibrations of my eardrums: ‘Nora, are you able to come in front of your classmates or not?!’
She said it in a serious tone, screaming.
My legs began to move before I had the chance to hide my tears; she was screaming way too loudly for me to give it a second thought.
I would have walked out of class, but I didn’t want to get into more trouble.
Therefore, with my unsure and awkward steps I made my way to the front. I was receiving long stares from my classmates, who must had forgotten that I was even there.
Sure, she didn’t curse or anything, so this may seem overly dramatic. But at the time and in that situation, from my perspective, those words had a negative impact on my already nonexistent self-esteem levels and anxiety.
“Tears Stung At My Eyes”
“At the end of my sophomore year in high school, my dad was placed in the Intensive Care Unit for over a week due to a severe risk of heart and kidney failure. He was really sick.
This was also the week of final exams, but instead of studying every night, I was in the small ICU room with my father and the rest of my family. We cried every evening together that week, because we did not know if these would be our last few days together.
The majority of my teachers were extremely accommodating. One teacher even offered to give me a perfect score to take some weight off my shoulders. (I declined, because I loved her course).
However, one teacher in particular was unforgivably apathetic to my situation. I had missed my test that Wednesday morning to stay with my father, and we negotiated in class on Thursday that I would take it after the weekend, so that I would have a few days to rest and study. The following day however, at the conclusion of Friday’s class, she loudly asked me if I would be coming in that very day to take my test. I responded that we had negotiated for a time after the weekend so I could catch up.
Something in her must have snapped, because she quickly retorted:
‘No. Don’t make things up. You’re taking it today. I would have never given you that much extra time.’
Tears stung at my eyes, and I began to turn red out of humiliation and anger. At this point, I stared at her, startled and scared for my grade, which was certain to be a zero due to my sleepless nights and lack of preparation.
The whole class sat in silence, and all I could do was sit and try to talk past the lump in my throat as she accused me of lying. Everyone’s eyes were on me. Ultimately, it was my word against hers. After what seemed like a very long last 5 minutes of class, the bell rang, and everyone made a beeline for the door, rushing to leave the tension-filled room. Everyone except my friend Victoria, who clearly had something to say about the situation.
She calmly walked up to the teacher’s desk, looked at her, and said,
‘No offense, Ms. H. I don’t mean to be rude, but you really did schedule Lana to take her test next week. I heard you say it.’
And then she left. I had never been more thankful for another student listening in on a private conversation.
The teacher sat there, stone faced, looked at me, and harshly agreed to a test after the weekend. It was never the same between us. I don’t know why she did what she did, but it was amongst the most unsympathetic and rude encounters I ever had with a teacher.
The irony? My exam was over To Kill a Mockingbird, in which one of the most important themes is the importance of treating others with sympathy and trying to see life from their perspective. My insensitive teacher had more than a few things to learn from Atticus.
She never apologized.”
Everyone Cheats In His Eyes
“We had a visiting professor, a self-proclaimed Marxist, who never failed to mention how spoiled and privileged all the students at my college were. This was the worst stereotype, as many people were on full scholarship. But he seemed to enjoy expressing his contempt for us.
Anyway, I was taking his class in introductory music theory as an elective. One day he announced in front of everyone that a student in class was a cheater because they had made a perfect score on a fairly complicated laboratory test of rhythm. (You followed a score and tapped out the rhythms that were marked, and the program recorded your results.) And then he announced that the cheating student was me.
How I was supposed to have cheated on this, I don’t know. The following day I asked one of the TAs to come to the lab and watch me do a different rhythm test, on which I scored a 99%. The TA told me that the professor was also accusing the graduate students and TAs of all sorts of cheating, and that they had banded together to complain to the department chair — but that there was nothing anyone could do for me.
I dropped the class, the professor left at the end of the semester, but you know what the worst part of it was? The day he called me out in class, at the end of class, as we filed out of the room, I turned to some friends for support and they all ignored me and hurried away from me as if I were poisonous. I guess they were just afraid that he would attack them for associating with me, and hurt their grades, but that moment destroyed my friendships with several people in the college music community and made me a far more cynical person.”
What Kind Of Teacher Was She
“This was from the teacher who had 50 Shades of Grey as her favorite option for our book report, and who actually organized a class party to go see the movie. Probably my least favorite teacher of all time. That entire class was a joke. The other classes got to choose their senior research projects; we had to do ours on Disney movies, because she was Disney-obsessed. But I digress…
I finish up my work one day and start reading while I wait for class to end. I happen to be reading an encyclopedia on North American wildlife, since I’m a little bit of a nature enthusiast. Most of the class is chatting.
Teacher walks over, lifts my book to see what I’m reading, and starts laughing. ‘An encyclopedia? Are you for real?’
Me: ‘I like it. It’s interesting.’
Teacher, smirking: ‘Oh, honey. I’m worried for you. That’s just not normal.’
I honestly had no clue how to respond. Politely, at least.”
What An Ugly Man
“I was in class 6 and went to the school as usual in a happy and ecstatic mood. After the first four periods, the class monitor sprung in the room with news that the subject teacher was absent. I don’t think I need to explain the situation of the class. Everyone roared, banged the benches, shouted, attacked each other and what not. It was a joy for us.
But the initial enthusiasm turned into moaning as our sports teacher entered the room with a stick. Now, there was this system of checking the nails and hair, and ensure that they are tidy and without any nail polish.
Now, almost every brown skinned girl would have a black pigmentation just under their nails. I, too, had it. I was sitting in the first bench with my BAE (girl bestie). Sir came and asked me to show my nails. When I showed him my nails, he literally frowned at me with utter disgust and disgrace. And then he asked my fair friend to show her hands. And as you know, they were white.
‘Ewww. Look at her nails and look at your nails. Your nails are so dirty and black and look at her nails, so white and beautiful.’
The whole class was listening with quite interest. I could hear them giggling and talking at my back. But I knew that this time I have to speak up. If not for me, then for the rest of the brown population of our country (which includes both male and female).
‘Sir that was quite an ugly statement. Please refrain from saying such statements in future otherwise.’
My heart was pounding with tension.
‘Are you warning me? If that’s the case then let me tell you, the only ugly thing in this whole room is your ugly color and hands.’
At that moment, I couldn’t hold my tears back.
Later I reported it to the higher authorities, and they sacked the sir after 1 month of continuous complains.”
Who Could Say That To A Little Girl?
“When I was 6 or 7, there was an audition for modelling event for the upcoming annual cultural festival of our school. It was the first time my parents allowed me to take part in it. I was already too excited that I would be spending time with my friends at the auditorium. I, along with my friends went to the teacher who was in charge. She asked all the girls to walk one by one and selected all of them.
It was my turn to walk, as soon as I started the teacher burst into laughter, but didn’t say anything. Later she asked one of the girls to write down the names and give it to her. Next day all the girls were called for the practice, except me. I thought they forgot to call me and went there with the girls.
Teacher: Was your name there on the list?
Me: I think the girl forgot to write it mam.
Teacher: I didn’t select you, go back to your class.
Me: Mam, but all of my friends are participating.
Teacher: You should participate in something else. I don’t want a fat girl like you to spoil the event.
Everyone present in the room started laughing. My face flushed red, I stared at my feet, hoping no one would notice how embarrassed I was.In my early teens, I had an eating disorder, those words ‘fat girl’ echoed in my head every time I looked at myself in the mirror, all because she successfully made me hate my body.
As an adult I know that the little me was wrong to take her words too seriously, but I feel teachers should be very careful with their words, they can poison the young minds with self doubts.”
“My second grade teacher was widely known and hated throughout the school. She also happened to be a native Californian whose family had lived in Gilroy for many generations.
At that age, and for a long while after, my mom used to make me traditional Indian food (rice, vegetables, etc) during the day, put it in a Thermos and leave it for me in the office. When I picked it up at noon, it would be warm and fresh. The only problem was that the office was a good 5 minute walk from where our class ate lunch, a bench right outside the classroom.
We had only 20 minutes to eat lunch, after which we were released onto the playground. If I went to get my food after the bell rang, I would lose half of that time just walking to the office and back. So, after bucking up a lot of courage and a long pep talk from my mom, I raised my hand five minutes before the lunch bell and asked if I could start walking to the office early.
My teacher was livid. Not because I wanted to leave early— I had already finished my work— but because she was angry that my mom made lunch for me.
‘You are eight years old! You should be making you OWN food. Why is your mom making food for you still? Are you a baby?’
Never mind that I was still 6 at the time, and that half the class was Indian too— their mothers just had the time to park the car, walk into the school and place their kids’ lunch right outside the classroom door or hand it right to them.
I tried to explain that I don’t just eat sandwiches and chips for lunch, that it was near impossible for me to cook my own Indian food in the morning and pack it before I left for school. She got mad that I was talking back to her.
That incident led to two unfortunate things. My teacher now hated me, which led to over 5 trips to the principal’s office over the course of the year. The rest of the kids were now hyper-aware that I didn’t bring ‘normal food’ to school and I was teased mercilessly for it.
I always wondered why teachers who hate kids still stay with their jobs.”
Sorry, Not Sorry
“When I was in first grade, (I would have been about 6 years old), I got into a ‘fight’ with another student (it amounted to pushing each other).
Our teacher came over and grabbed each of us by an ear, twisting them until it hurt, dragging us into the classroom.
She ordered us to kneel on the floor, facing each other and apologize to each other. The other boy could not get his apology out fast enough.
I refused to apologize. The teacher went and got her yardstick and started to hit me with it demanding I say that I was sorry. I refused again.
She continued to hit me until she broke the yardstick, which angered her even more. She went to the next classroom and got another yardstick and continued to hit me getting more angry as I continued to refuse to say I was sorry.
She broke the second yardstick and shouted, ‘Why won’t you say you are sorry?’
I replied, ‘Because I am not sorry and to say I am sorry would be a lie.’ She looked at me in astonishment, shook her head and walked away.
I never did apologize.
The worst part of this sordid affair was she was a Catholic Nun, who was supposed to be good and holy.”
You’d Think They’d Be Much More Caring
“I was 12 years old and in a religious private school. I was going through some issues at home and my life was pretty much a mess. I really had far too much on my plate, and it was piling up fast.
Insomnia was my constant friend. I wasn’t sleeping at night, and early morning prayer was not easy. Usually, the melodic humming would put me straight to sleep and I would nod off ten minutes into the service.
So one fine spring day, I nodded off. And my teacher woke me up.
She was furious with me that I wasn’t praying. Boy, did she give me an earful about how disrespectful I was and how horrible I was.
I admit I likely shrugged insolently, because I really couldn’t apologize for being exhausted. She knew why I was not sleeping. It’s not like I could do much to stop it. But she needed to break me. She couldn’t let me win. So in front of my entire class, my teacher told me that it was my fault that my family was broken.
Yes, I was twelve and it was all on my young shoulders. I didn’t beg God hard enough to help us, and therefore we would continue suffering. Apparently, we were all praying to a God who decided that a broken little girl’s insomnia was a reason to wreck havoc on innocent people. What an awesome god we prayed to, creator of heaven and earth and punisher of little kids who couldn’t keep their eyes open after crying all night.
The thing was, I did pray at that time. Every night, I prayed for my family’s issues to end.
Eventually, I lost faith in prayer, because I felt so abandoned. It hit me soon that the same god I begged for help was the same god punishing me. So why worship a tyrant? And then, that god got smaller until I became an atheist.
But that teacher didn’t care. She wanted to break me in the name of her god and she did.
It’s been 18 years.
I still remember.
I still tear up when I think of that moment.
I still remember the tan walls.
I still remember her obnoxious pink sweater (before Umbridge).
I still remember my light blue Peter Pan shirt and navy blue skirt and little leather loafers.
I remember how the kids stared at me.
Most of all, I remember wishing I was dead. Because my family was suffering because of me.
Teachers said stuff like that a lot, to break a defiant and inquisitive girl.
I wish I could find that teacher and tell her what a monster she was, and to hope she has improved in character.
Somehow, I doubt it.”