Quotes About School

Once upon a time there was an eighteen-year-old girl who dragged her butt out of bed and hauled it all the way to school on a sunny day in May.

The guidance counselor convinces them I need a reward-a chew toy or something.

Hairwoman is torturing us with essays. Do English teachers spend their vacations dreaming up these things?

Nothing good ever happens at lunch. The cafeteria is a giant sound stage where they film daily segments of Teenage Humiliation Rituals. And it smells gross.

We need more holidays to keep the social studies teachers on track.

I cut class, you cut class, he, she, it cuts class. We cut class, they cut class. We all cut class. I cannot say this in Spanish, because I did not go to Spanish today. Gracias a dios.

We had eight inches of snow last night. In any other part of the country, that would mean a snow day. Not in Syracuse. We never get snow days. It snows an inch in South Carolina, everything shuts down and they get on the six o'clock news. In our district, they plow early and often and put chains on the bus tires.

I cut class, you cut class, he, she, it cuts class. We cut class, they cut class. We all cut class. I cannot say this in Spanish, because I did not go to Spanish today. Gracias a dios. Hasta luego.

Some stand-up comic cracks, 'No, Melinda no es linda.' They call me Me-no-linda for the rest of the period. This is how terrorists get started, this harmless fun.

We have journals in social studies, too. The school must have gotten a good price on journals.

Finally, our own Devils hulk into the gym. The same boys who got detention in elementary school for beating the crap out of people are now rewarded for it. They call it football.

Heather is not at school today. Everybody is griping about her lame decorations. I bet she calls in sick the rest of the year. Heather should run away and join the Marines immediately.

They herd us into an assembly that is supposed to be a 'democratic forum' to come up with a new school mascot. Who are we? We can't be the Buccaneers because pirates supported violence and discrimination against women. The kid who suggests the Shoemakers in honor of the old moccasin factory is laughed out of the auditorium. Warriors insults Native Americans. I think Overbearing Eurocentric Patriarchs would be perfect, but I don't suggest it.

Detention does not sound appealing. I do my homework - choose five verbs and conjugate them. To translate: traducir. I traducate. To flunk: fracasar. Yo am almost fracasaring. To hide: esconder. To escape: escapar To forget: olvidar.

I head for my closet after school. I want to take the poster of Maya Angelou home, and I'd like to keep some of my tree pictures and my turkey-bone sculpture. The rest of the stuff can stay, so long as it doesn't have my name on it. Who knows, some other kids may need a safe place to run to next year.

The whole class yells at Rachel/Rachelle in the hall. That's what you get for speaking up.

Mother and Father apologize. They sing a show tune: 'What are we to do? What are we to do? She's so blue, we're just two. What, oh what, are we supposed to do?' In my headworld they jump on Principal Principal's desk and perform a tap-dance routine. A spotlight flashes on them. A chorus line joins in, and the guidance counselor dances around a spangled cane. I giggle. Zap. Back in their world.

I wake up on time for four days in a row, get on the bus four days in a row, ride home after school. I want to scream. I think I'll need to take a day off every once in a while.

The bell rings. Hairwoman blocks the door to give out our assignment. A five-?hundred-?word essay on symbolism, how to find hidden meanings in Hawthorne. The whole class yells at Rachel/Rachelle in the hall. That's what you get for speaking up.

God crackles over the intercom and tells Mr. Freeman he's late for a faculty meeting.

Even the teachers noticed. Mr. Diaz walked past my locker when Finn was there and said, For the love of all that is holy, you two, please don't breed.) Pg 149

We were as merciless and cruel as most primitives are. But we learnt at that school the private nature of cruelty; and our inborn hatred for freaks and outcasts was tempered by meeting them daily.

In June of 1955 I graduated from Bennett High School in Buffalo, New York. The school was named after one Lewis J. Bennett, and you now know as much about the man as I ever did. Having one's name on something enduring—a school, a bridge, a building—is thought to provide immortality of a sort, but if that's immortality, well, I'm with

The magnificent title of the Functional School of Anthropology has been bestowed on myself, in a way on myself, and to a large extent out of my own sense of irresponsibility.