Back in the 1980s I wanted to be a school teacher. That meant I needed a certain number of college credits. This was a problem as I saw it. I could have taken the college entrance exam without first completing my high school studies. But to get the best grades possible, I would need the background of those studies. I was rusty on how to write a term paper, for instance. I decided to complete high school first. That meant going to night school to earn the necessary credits.

First, I checked with the principal of the high school I had attended years ago. I wanted my credits transferred there so I could graduate twenty years after my class. The principal agreed to accept my grades from night school toward the graduation requirements. I then registered for night classes at the nearest school offering them.

My first class would be Psychology. It was a ninth grade subject. I bought a used textbook at the school book store and leafed through it. The subject revolved around a ninth-grader dating and his relationships with his peers. Yeah, right.

That first class was an eye-opener. The room quickly filled with an assortment of adults. Older than the teacher, I was the oldest person there. This was also the teacher's first night school class. He had the latitude to design the class as he saw fit. I asked if I could take the final exam and skip the classes. He said “No.” I would have to attend all the classes. “You will need the preparation the lectures would give you,” he said. I pointed out that the main subject of the class was ninth-grade dating. “If my husband caught me dating, I would be in serious trouble,” I responded. No matter. I had to attend all the classes.

As I surveyed my classmates, I figured it would be an adventure. Many were there under court order. Some could barely read or write. I was the only one preparing for college. Since I was forced to attend all the classes, I delighted in getting the teacher off track. He was an easy mark. I remember the time he displayed an automobile accident scene for us to study. When he asked a question, I was usually the only one to respond. I would give a spurious answer, then ask a misleading question. After responding, trying to answer it, he realized my question had little to do with the accident scene. Exploding, he would yell at me to be quiet. What a teacher. I hoped I would do a better job of controlling a class when my opportunity came.

Final exam time eventually arrived. I aced that as well. After all, it was a ninth-grade subject. At our last class, he asked for suggestions on how to improve the class for the next semester. Someone hoped it would not include anyone like me. They all agreed. In having my fun, I had ruined the experience for the other students. I hadn't noticed. If someone like me showed up, they agreed, he/she should be given the final exam and ushered out the door. Well, wasn't that what I had asked for in the first place? My next class would go better. We could progress at our own rate. So much for ninth-grade Psychology. I wasn't interested in dating anyway.