I joined pretty much to post in this thread, just so y'all know.
In ninth grade at a freshman high, we had a split lunch where half of us were in the cafeteria, half in class for third period (we only had four classes, ninety minutes each. We switched after Christmas). See, the entire time was lunch+ 'recess', meaning we could stand around in a grassy patch sandwiched between classrooms...and we had to sit as a class, and get up as a class. I managed to experience being in both the first and last classes to sit in the second half. If you were last, or close to last, you were boned half the time. It wasn't unusual for the last people to still be eating when the bell for the next class rang, so they had to dump the remains of their food, get their backpacks, and hurry to their last class. I wasn't actually in the last class, held back several occasions because the teacher that period was...
Let me explain a little more. He'd been teaching...easily 20+ years, and was the coach of the girl's track team as well as the physical science teacher. He used a projector with very visibly yellowed pages, pretty much just made us copy fill-in-the-blank notes from said projector 90% of the time, and was near-unanimously agreed to be 'creepy' by the female students. It was really just little things and a feeling, but it still made us uncomfortable. It so did not help that the day after Christmas break he came back with a mustache and trench coat. I feel so sorry for the girls who had to had him that half of the year.
Going back, there's the private school I went to for first, second, and third grade. Why did you stop me from checking out Harry Potter in first grade, you dicks? I come from a bookworm family and I ate those 'on-grade' books you wanted me to read like breakfast mints by that point.
Just for clarification, the book was in the library and older students could check it out.
Then...there's the doozy. In third grade, I developed Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis (it's been in remission for five years or so, only minor physical damage). Needless to say, it was sort of traumatic and painful, and writing was unpleasant at the best of times. So I started to get a C in English because I couldn't write the short answers. I understood it all perfectly well, I just couldn't write and the teacher was "kind of" a ***** and wouldn't let me do it orally. I started dreading school and missing a lot of it, so I missed out on a couple of important things, like memorizing my multiplication tables.
Oh! There was also the incident where, I in a wheelchair and with separation anxiety, was left in an office after my mom dropped me off then disappeared, having left as the principal told me. As I cried because I had wanted to say goodbye, my mom was across the hall (as she later told me). The principal told her something about it 'being better for me'. I didn't even know about it until years later.
So, uhm...yeah. Sorry about the length, I write fiction and I apparently cannot be concise.