School Detention Quotes

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.

less than an hour ago, all I'd wanted was detention. Now, I was nominated for homecoming court and going to the big dance with the hottest guy in school. Somewhere out there, God was laughing at me. I was sure of it.

Let me guess: you were one of those kids who had a chair dedicated to you in detention in school." "Was not. They retired my chair after it sort of accidentally caught on fire. There's a plaque there now.

He turned to Edwin. "You know, the stuff you just told me makes more sense than all the weird things the counselors and psychologist have told me in school and at the detention center." Edwin tapped Cole's shoulder with the broken stick. "That's because those people still think you can get rid of the left end of the stick.

Just thinking. Man, Sophie, it's only your first day and you've already befriended the school outcast, pissed off the most popular girls at Hecate, and developed a full-blown thing for the hottest guy. If you can manage to get detention tomorrow, you'll be like, legendary.

Once, I ordered two thousand lady bugs from the local garden center and set them loose in the atrium. I sprinkled marigold seeds in the ficus planters and put gold fish in the lobby fountain. These are things I did with no consequences, no repercussions. My nineteen detentions were for smart answers and missed homework. There is no equivalent punishment for making the world a stranger place.

What?” Richardson snarled. “No smart retort, Mr. Gautier? Cat swallow your tongue?” Nick gave her a charming grin he didn’t really feel. “No, ma’am. A gator named Sense Formerly Known as Common.” Sneering at him, she tottered her way to her desk so that she could insult someone else and ruin their day. Caleb let out an annoyed breath. -Great,- he projected to Nick. -Now I have to get detention, too. I really hate you, Gautier.- Nick batted his eyelashes at Caleb. -But I wubs you, Caliboo.- That succeeded in wringing a groan out of Caleb. “What was that, Mr. Malphas?” Richardson asked. “Severe intestinal woe caused by an external hemorrhoid that seems to be growing on my right-hand side.” He cast a meaningful glower toward Nick. The class erupted into laughter as Richardson shot to her feet. “Enough!” She slammed her hands on her desk. “For that, Mr. Malphas, you can join Mr. Gautier in after-school detention.” Caleb let out an irritated sigh. --More quality time with my hemorrhoid. Just what I wanted for Christmas. Yippee ki-yay.--

Without a purpose, schools are houses of detention, not attention

Well … when we were in our first year, Harry — young, carefree, and innocent —” Harry snorted. He doubted whether Fred and George had ever been innocent. “— well, more innocent than we are now — we got into a spot of bother with Filch.” “We let off a Dungbomb in the corridor and it upset him for some reason —” “So he hauled us off to his office and started threatening us with the usual —” “— detention —” “— disembowelment —” “— and we couldn’t help noticing a drawer in one of his filing cabinets marked Confiscated and Highly Dangerous.” “Don’t tell me —” said Harry, starting to grin. “Well, what would you’ve done?” said Fred. “George caused a diversion by dropping another Dungbomb, I whipped the drawer open, and grabbed — this.” “It’s not as bad as it sounds, you know,” said George. “We don’t reckon Filch ever found out how to work it. He probably suspected what it was, though, or he wouldn’t have confiscated it.” “And you know how to work it?” “Oh yes,” said Fred, smirking. “This little beauty’s taught us more than all the teachers in this school.” “You’re winding me up,” said Harry, looking at the ragged old bit of parchment. “Oh, are we?” said George. He took out his wand, touched the parchment lightly, and said, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.

Exactly one month after he was convicted, when the lights were dimmed and the detention officers made a final sweep of the catwalk, Peter reached down and tugged off his right sock. He turned on his side in the lower bunk, so that he was facing the wall. He fed the sock into his mouth, stuffing it as far back as it would go. When it got hard to breathe, he fell into a dream. He was still eighteen, but it was the first day of kindergarten. He was carrying his backpack and his Superman lunch box. The orange school bus pulled up and, with a sigh, split open its gaping jaws. Peter climbed the steps and faced the back of the bus, but this time, he was the only student on it. He walked down the aisle to the very end, near the emergency exit. He put his lunch box down beside him and glanced out the rear window. It was so bright he thought the sun itself must be chasing them down the highway. 'Almost there,' a voice said, and Peter turned around to look at the driver. But just as there had been no passengers, there was no one at the wheel. Here was the amazing thing: in his dream, Peter wasn't scared. He knew, somehow, that he was headed exactly where he'd wanted to go.

It's after school, after my double detentions for gym and chemistry, and I'm at Knead, about to begin working on a new piece. I wedge the clay out against my board, enjoying the therapeutic quality of each smack, prod, and punch. As the clay oozes between my fingers and pastes against my skin, images of all sorts begin to pop into my head. I try my best to push them away,to focus instead on the cold and clammy sensation of the mound and the way it helps me relax. But after only a few short minutes of solitude, I hear someone storm their way up the back stairwell. At first I think it's Spencer, but then I hear the voice: "I'm coming up the stairs," Adam bellows. "I'm approaching the studio area, about to pass by the sink." I turn to look, noticing he's standing only a few feet behind me now. "I hope I didn't startle you this time," he says. "Ha-ha." I hold back my smile. "I would have called your cell to tell you I was coming up, but you never gave me your number." "I'm fine," I assure him, unable to stifle a giggle.

Detention. That’s what you get at the Junipero Serra Mission Academy when you sucker punch your stepbrother on school grounds and a teacher happens to notice.

So here's the deal: I speak up in class, I get sent to office. Megan speaks up in class, she's a "strong, assertive model student."I post a few flyers saying that the vending machines on school property are a sign that our school has sold out to corporate-industrial establishment, I get (what else?) Saturday detention. Megan starts a campaign to serve local foods in the lunchroom (oh, and can we please maybe get rid of the soda machines?) and the local newspaper does a write-up about her. She's like me, only not. Not like me at all. She's the golden girl and I'm...tarnished. So forgive me if I hate her a little.

Without meaning, learning has no purpose. Without a purpose, schools are houses of detention, not attention.

This wasn’t like detention.

M ost of us are raised as slaves. Our opinions are rarely sought, rules are rarely explained – and moral rules never are – we are shipped off to schools where we are treated disrespectfully; our subservience is bought with rewards, and our independence is punished with detentions. Scepticism and curiosity are scorned and belittled, while empty abilities like throwing balls, learning dates, sitting still and “being pretty” are praised and elevated.

It never occurs to any of these balloons that someone smoking on school premises isn’t rebelling against the system, we’re not even thinking about the system, we just want a fag. It’s a survival technique, a lot of teachers smoke but no one’s barging in the staff room judging their lives, their futures, putting them on detention.

And I am proud, but mostly, I’m angry. I’m angry, because when I look around, I’m still alone. I’m still the only black woman in the room. And when I look at what I’ve fought so hard to accomplish next to those who will never know that struggle I wonder, “How many were left behind?” I think about my first-grade class and wonder how many black and brown kids weren’t identified as “talented” because their parents were too busy trying to pay bills to pester the school the way my mom did. Surely there were more than two, me and the brown boy who sat next to me in the hall each day. I think about my brother and wonder how many black boys were similarly labeled as “trouble” and were unable to claw out of the dark abyss that my brother had spent so many years in. I think about the boys and girls playing at recess who were dragged to the principal’s office because their dark skin made their play look like fight. I think about my friend who became disillusioned with a budding teaching career, when she worked at the alternative school and found that it was almost entirely populated with black and brown kids who had been sent away from the general school population for minor infractions. From there would only be expulsions or juvenile detention. I think about every black and brown person, every queer person, every disabled person, who could be in the room with me, but isn’t, and I’m not proud. I’m heartbroken. We should not have a society where the value of marginalized people is determined by how well they can scale often impossible obstacles that others will never know. I have been exceptional, and I shouldn’t have to be exceptional to be just barely getting by. But we live in a society where if you are a person of color, a disabled person, a single mother, or an LGBT person you have to be exceptional. And if you are exceptional by the standards put forth by white supremacist patriarchy, and you are lucky, you will most likely just barely get by. There’s nothing inspirational about that.

Does being forced to sit in time-out ever make little kids stop putting cats in the dishwasher or drawing on white walls with purple marker? Of course not. It teaches them to be sneaky and guarantees that when they get to high school they’ll love detention because it’s a great place to sleep.

It’s raising you up for prison. Your every move is criminalized, by design. In most schools, kids don’t get expelled for saying ‘fuck’ or get tased for tardiness or incarcerated for missing one detention. In most schools, eighth-grade boys aren’t terrorized this way. They’re allowed to be kids, nothing on their minds but pussy and Roblox.” Ty’s eyes focused on his notebook. He was painfully aware that Shane was referring to him. He’d been sent to juvie for missing a detention.

Well, well, well, if it isn't Ms. Detention. How was it by the way? I’m sure your father was very proud.

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.

Ann did detention like Whitney Houston did cocaine—frequently and without consideration of the consequences.

[...] And as for you, Mr Lupin, as this is your last month at school, I don’t see that detention will be very effective.” This was not a relief, to Remus. She was still smiling, which meant she knew exactly how best to punish him, and he wasn’t going to like it. “Give me detention if you want!” He said, quickly. McGonagall chuckled, shaking her head. “No, I think I have just the thing. With Mr Lockhart out of commission, I believe we have a vacancy for quidditch commentator.” Remus practically felt the colour drain out of his face. The woman was clearly an evil mastermind. Anything but that. Over McGonagall’s shoulder, Lily grinned.

Smith, I met you right here, under the bleachers, and I kissed you. On the drive home, you looked out through the rain at a red light and told me it was the first time in a long time that it felt right. It's so stupid how my dad makes students work for free at the concession stand as a form of detention, isn't it, Rory? You looked miserable, and that was before you even saw me kiss Smith right in front of you. I know you saw, because I knew you were there, watching the same way you watch from your bedroom window, turning away every time somebody looks. Jealousy is a funny thing. We spend so much of high school consumed by it, hating that another person has something we don't, wishing we could taste what it's like to be them. To take that feeling out of your hands for a second and pass it to someone else in relief. So, I guess that's why it felt like I meant it.

I remember the number to the school’s desk because last year, Molly thought it would be funny to prank-call a teacher and tell them that the queen wanted to come on a royal visit. We got detention for a week. I assure you, my friends are a very bad influence on me.

Listen. Dead people never stop talking. Maybe because death is not death at all, just a detention after school. You know where you’re coming from and you’re always returning from it. You know where you’re going though you never seem to get there and you’re just dead. Dead.

Listen. Dead people never stop talking. Maybe because death is not death at all, just a detention after school. You know where you’re coming from and you’re always returning from it. You know where you’re going though you never seem to get there and you’re just dead. Dead.

Jasper: Is there a way out at the other end of the hallway? Cade: There’s an emergency exit. Rhett: Fuuuuucckk. Are you breaking our cousin out of her shitty, stuffy wedding? Jasper: Yes. Come up with a distraction and text me when it’s safe for us to run. Rhett: Can I pull the fire alarm? Cade: I will come up with something. Rhett: I’ve always wanted to pull the fire alarm. Cade: You did. I had to wait for your dumb ass after school while you finished detention for weeks. Jasper: Guys? Cade: Willa has a plan. That might actually be worse. But when I say go . . . go. You need to run.

Jenna walked in between desks and plonked herself down behind hers, noticing AGAIN that the teacher hadn’t graced the class with his zitty presence. She thought Mr. Kennan needed to get fired, which said a lot, because she rarely paid attention to ugly teachers. She’d discussed this with the principal two weeks back when she’d been sent to his office after getting caught sleeping. She’d told him that if he employed more hot teachers like Mr. Daniels then maybe she wouldn’t pass out from boredom. The principal gave her a week’s detention because of that comment, saying that she needed to take things more seriously. But she WAS being serious. Jenna Hamilton from Graffiti Heaven (Chapter 28).

Ugh, call me Ro,” she interrupted. “Titles make me itchy. And wait—I have to go to school? Gross. If I have to sit through a bunch of lectures on how brilliant you elves think you are, I might start smashing your crystal walls.” “Don’t worry, I spend most of my time ditching or in detention,” Keefe assured her. Ro grinned. “Sounds like you and I are going to get along just fine.

...[A]s you read opinions and history in school about 2004... I want you to know... that going to this war was right. No matter what you hear 20 years from now by elite media and historians, things get distorted... Just like Vietnam, I fear OIF (Operation Iraqi Freedom) will be abused in the same way. Just as you hear more about American soldiers in Vietnam raping women and children and shooting unarmed men, today the media is focused about this detainee debacle for two weeks solid, in contrast to American Soldiers being dragged in the streets and dismembered, which was covered for less than 72 hours. I am part of the Special Operations Forces elite... We are harder than anyone at these detention centers and let me tell you, we treat these guys with the utmost professionalism. We do not hit them, we don't humiliate them or cause them any bodily harm for the purpose of entertainment. As a Christian, one assumes great compassion... This is WAR and treated very seriously. People are being killed and it is our job to get information... The humanity in me wants me to warm them, tell them their family is okay, feed them, and even embrace them in a loving way... Most, even in my stature, feel the same way. This is the American Soldier.

In the end, Miss Margitan settled for a formal apology and two weeks of detention for the bad boy who had dared call her Maggot in print. It was bad, but what in high school is not? At the time we’re stuck in it, like hostages locked in a Turkish bath, high school seems the most serious business in the world to just about all of us. It’s not until the second or third class reunion that we start realizing how absurd the whole thing was.

Do you know a Psychopath? You do not know me; but after reading my memoir you will know me a little better and you will have had the experience of safely getting into the mind and life of a young psychopath in training. Critics have written: It is a powerful and unusual memoir; brutal and raw. A Psychopath In Training: In 1997 psychiatrist’s contracted by the Correctional Service and the National Parole Board wrote in their final report, before I was released back into the community, they had diagnosed me to be a psychopath. A Psychopath: How does one become a Psychopath? After of the death of my young mother, when I was fourteen, I became a ward of the state and forced into the care and custody of the Catholic Christian Brothers at St. John’s Catholic Training School for Boys until after I turned sixteen. Since then I have been incarcerated over seventeen years in various prisons, institutions and juvenile detention centres. I have been interviewed and treated by so many prison psychiatrists and psychologists I should be called the professional. In my youth I have experienced almost every kind of sleaze, sex and violence humans can inflict on each other. I had to learn the hard way on how to identify and deal with the people who were the dangerous psychopath’s in my life and the proof I succeeded is; I am still alive. My book cover depicts what is coming out of the government foster homes and prisons today: Our communities and our police forces are not at all prepared for the dangerous psychopaths being churned out. Are you ready? You and the educators alike can learn from my memoir.

At this point, perhaps you Hushlanders are beginning to doubt the truth of this narrative. You have seen several odd and inexplicable things happen. (Though, just as a warning, the story so far has actually been quite tame. Just wait until we get to the part with the talking dinosaurs.) Some readers might even think that I’m just making this story up. You might think that everything in this book is dreamy silliness. This book is serious. Terribly serious. Your skepticism results from a lifetime of training in the Librarians’ school system, where you were taught all kinds of lies. Indeed, you’d probably never even heard of the Smedrys, despite the fact that they are the most famous family of Oculators in the entire world. In most parts of the Free Kingdoms, being a Smedry is considered equivalent to being nobility. (If you wish to perform a fun test, next time you are in history class, ask your teacher about the Smedrys. If your teacher is a Librarian spy, he or she will get red-faced and give you a detention. If, on the other hand, your teacher is innocent, he or she will simply be confused, then likely give you a detention.)

She had lived in eight different countries growing up and had visited dozens of others. To most people, this sounded cool, and in some ways, Ayers knows, it was cool, or parts of it were. But since humans are inclined to want what they don't have, she longed to live in America, preferably the solid, unchanging, undramatic Midwest, and attend a real high school, the kind shown in movies, complete with a football team, cheerleaders, pep rallies, chemistry labs, summer reading lists, hall passes, proms, detentions, assemblies, fund-raisers, lockers, Spanish clubs, marching bands, and the dismissal bell.

Shrieking with rage and frustration she attempted to trace the mysterious symptoms to their source, but the students told her stubbornly they were suffering “Umbridge-itis.” After putting four successive classes in detention and failing to discover their secret she was forced to give up and allow the bleeding, swooning, sweating, and vomiting students to leave her classes in droves. But not even the users of the Snackboxes could compete with that master of chaos, Peeves, who seemed to have taken Fred’s parting words deeply to heart. Cackling madly, he soared through the school, upending tables, bursting out of blackboards, and toppling statues and vases.

Keefe mumbled “ow” several times before shouting, “YOU THINK YOU CAN HOLD M—” A loud RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP cut him off, and he shouted a bunch of words that would earn him a month of detention before a CRUNCH! left him silent. “Are you okay?” Sophie called. “I’ve been better,” Keefe groaned. “Guess I forgot to brace for the fall.” “He also forgot his pants,” the blue-cloaked figure noted. A wave of snickers followed, and Sophie realized the whole school was hiding in the mist, watching them dangle like sides of beef at the butcher shop. Keefe’s boot dangled with them, along with a shredded pair of black pants. “Oy, his boxers are covered in little banshees!” a kid shouted. “Bet he peed himself too,” another said.

If you want to further understanding of systemic racism even more among the people you interact with, you can try to link to the systemic effects of racism whenever you talk about racism. Instead of posting on Facebook: “This teacher shouted a racial slur at a Hispanic kid and should be fired!” you can say all that, and then add, “This behavior is linked to the increased suspension, expulsion, and detention of Hispanic youth in our schools and sets an example of behavior for the children witnessing this teacher’s racism that will influence the way these children are treated by their peers, and how they are treated as adults.” I do this often when I’m talking about racism, and pretty regularly somebody will comment with something like, “That’s an aspect of this situation I hadn’t considered, thank you.

Whenever you lose control, someone else always finds it.” These were the words of my high school English teacher Mr. Sologar on our first day of class. They didn’t have anything to do with literature or grammar, but I guess he wanted to kick off the class with a life lesson. It was a good one. If we acted up at home, he explained, control of our lives would swiftly transfer to our parents in the form of lost privileges or being grounded. The same was true at school. If we abused our freedom in the classroom or in the hallways—and we did!—we’d find ourselves in the principal’s office or confined to detention. If we got really crazy and decided to break the law, the legal system would step in to curtail our freedom. “No, control is never truly lost,” he repeated in his thick Indian accent. “If you fail to control yourself, others will control you.

This particular Sunday, the Sunday I was hurled from a moving car, started out like any other Sunday. My mother woke me up, made me porridge for breakfast. I took my bath while she dressed my baby brother Andrew, who was nine months old. Then we went out to the driveway, but once we were finally all strapped in and ready to go, the car wouldn’t start. My mom had this ancient, broken-down, bright-tangerine Volkswagen Beetle that she picked up for next to nothing. The reason she got it for next to nothing was because it was always breaking down. To this day I hate secondhand cars. Almost everything that’s ever gone wrong in my life I can trace back to a secondhand car. Secondhand cars made me get detention for being late for school. Secondhand cars left us hitchhiking on the side of the freeway. A secondhand car was also the reason my mom got married. If it hadn’t been for the Volkswagen that didn’t work, we never would have looked for the mechanic who became the husband who became the stepfather who became the man who tortured us for years and put a bullet in the back of my mother’s head—I’ll take the new car with the warranty every time.

When there’s a knock at my door, I scream, “Go away!” The knock gets more persistent. “Fuckin’ leave me alone!” As the door creaks open, I hurl a cup at the door. The cup doesn’t hit a hospital employee; it hits Mrs. P. squarely in the chest. “Oh, shit. Not you,” I say. Mrs. P.’s got new glasses, with rhinestones on them. “That’s not exactly the greeting I expected, Alex,” she says. “I can still give you a detention for cussing, you know.” I turn on my side so I don’t have to look at her. “Did you come here to give me detention slips? ’Cause if you did, you can forget it. I’m not goin’ back to school. Thanks for visitin’. Sorry you have to leave so soon.” “I’m not going anywhere until you hear me out.” Oh, please no. Anything except having to listen to her lecture. I push the button that calls the nurse. “Can we help you, Alex?” a voice bellows through the speaker. “I’m bein’ tortured.” “I beg your pardon?” Mrs. P. walks over to me and pulls the speaker out of my hand. “He’s joking. Sorry to bother you.” She puts the remote speaker on the nightstand, deliberately out of my reach. “Don’t they give you happy pills in this place?” “I don’t want to be happy.

But if somebody does want a productive conversation and genuinely believes that being called “cracker” is the same as being called “nigger” and feels angry and invalidated by the insistence that both do not meet your definition of racism, they will say so. This is an educational opportunity. This is a great way to let that person know that you do hear them, and that your experiences do not erase theirs because even though their experience is valid, it is a different experience. A response I’ve used is, “What was said to you wasn’t okay, and should be addressed. But we are talking about two different things. Being called “cracker” hurts, may even be humiliating. But after those feelings fade, what measurable impact will it have on your life? On your ability to walk the streets safely? On your ability to get a job? How often has the word “cracker” been used to deny you services? What measurable impact has this word had on the lives of white Americans in general?” In all honesty, from my personal experience, you are still not likely to get very far in that conversation, not right away. But it gives people something to think about. These conversations, even if they seem fruitless at first, can plant a seed to greater understanding. If you want to further understanding of systemic racism even more among the people you interact with, you can try to link to the systemic effects of racism whenever you talk about racism. Instead of posting on Facebook: “This teacher shouted a racial slur at a Hispanic kid and should be fired!” you can say all that, and then add, “This behavior is linked to the increased suspension, expulsion, and detention of Hispanic youth in our schools and sets an example of behavior for the children witnessing this teacher’s racism that will influence the way these children are treated by their peers, and how they are treated as adults.” I do this often when

Not long after graduation I was teaching at an alternative school and already I had serious doubts about my career choice. My students were hellions. I’d been assaulted twice. My car had been vandalized. I had to testify in court against one of my students, and afterward—and purely for spite—I delivered her textbook and homework assignments to the juvenile detention facility. Not my finest moment, but I enjoyed it.

Annual Report of the Department of Education, 1928-9: Mortality rate 3.5 per thousand. This rate is somewhat higher than that for the country as a whole. Medical officers make quarterly inspections of all pupils and special attention is given to delicate pupils. Numbers under detention 6,515. Seven boys and sixteen girls died.

The Empire had recruited him straight out of school. His detention record for bullying had supposedly put him at the top of their list. In fact, the Imperial recruiter had told him that bullies made some of the best stormtroopers. Bullies

you want to further understanding of systemic racism even more among the people you interact with, you can try to link to the systemic effects of racism whenever you talk about racism. Instead of posting on Facebook: “This teacher shouted a racial slur at a Hispanic kid and should be fired!” you can say all that, and then add, “This behavior is linked to the increased suspension, expulsion, and detention of Hispanic youth in our schools and sets an example of behavior for the children witnessing this teacher’s racism that will influence the way these children are treated by their peers, and how they are treated as adults.” I do this often when I’m talking about racism, and pretty regularly somebody will comment with something like, “That’s an aspect of this situation I hadn’t considered, thank you.

Most of the children who would have previously languished in detention, staring at the walls and planning the destruction of the teaching profession, will take the opportunity to do the work at home. A few won’t do the imposition and you might be forced, at first, to use a more punitive sanction. Yet with your detention figures dramatically reduced and staff time freed up, you will find more opportunities to prioritise those who try to run away from their consequences.

There is a reason why the UK has the highest imprisonment rates in the European Union,1 and it is the same reason why sticking children in silent detentions or imprisoning them in isolation booths doesn’t solve anything. Damaged children need people, not punishment.

Did you know that human beings can, in fact, cluck? /i didn't, not until Mr. Henry Wickworth found me dozing off in class the first day of seventh-grade English at the Academy. His face turned a shade of purple not normally found in nature, and me and the rest of the class had to sit through a ten-minute rant about respectful behavious and rudeness, and how he'd be expecting an essay outlining the difference by the end of detention that same afternoon. Yeah, detention on the first day of school. Detention every day for the entire first week of school, actually. So far, I'd written papers on disrespect, inconsiderateness, and honor. I thought he was actually going to take his ruler and break it over my head when he asked for one defining wiseacre, and I only wrote one sentence: I prefer smart aleck, sir.

Say that again, Fresa Blossom, and I swear to hell I’m gonna kiss you right in front of this whole stupid class again and I don’t care about the school detention or being grounded by Andrew.

Students with disabilities, as soon as their disability is recognized by school officials, are placed on a separate track. They are immediately labeled by authorized (credentialed) professionals (who never themselves have experienced these labels) as LD, ED, EMH, and so on. The meaning and definition of the labels differ, but they all signify inferiority on their face. Furthermore, these students are constantly told what they can (potentially/expect to) do and what they cannot do from the very date of their labeling. This happens as a natural matter of course in the classroom. All activists I interviewed who had a disability in grade school or high school told similar kinds of horror stories—detention and retention, threats and insults, physical and emotional abuse.

Mr. Ball was Fairview Middle School’s vice principal. Its disciplinarian. The guy who liked nothing better than running detention hall. He’d strut up and down the rows of chairs, tapping a ruler behind his back, his eyes darting from one inmate to the next, just itching to whip out his pink pad and give one of the troublemakers another hour in the after-school punishment zone.

buddy. You’d better get back to class.” “School’s over.” “Oh,” she said. “Don’t you usually have detention, or something?” He sagged. “Yeah,” he said, and trudged off.

Detective Superintendent Grey offered Adam her office to take the Zoom call with Asmin Khalil. He sat behind her desk and she sat over the other side of the office with Nell. Sitting in Grey’s chair felt like when he’d once gone on a trip to Kensington Palace with school and for a dare had sat on one of the roped-off thrones. He’d got a week’s worth of detentions and his mum had stopped his pocket money for a month

Watch… Personally, I think kids are just scared of getting detention. I don’t know how to change that, though. Being part of a full-on food fight at school has slowly become the number one item on my bucket list because I know it won’t happen, never in a million, billion years. Anyways, Gabe just kept rattling off suggestions, one after another, and it wouldn’t have been so bad if he wasn’t stuck on one idea the whole time… It was starting to get annoying. But I felt bad for him because he was CLEARLY just trying to make new friends at a new school, and that’s NEVER easy. I was the new kid at the beginning of the year, so I can tell you from personal experience – it’s not the best time ever. I tried to be patient, I seriously did, but after Gabe’s one millionth snowball idea, I realized I was running outta time to film my food review! Lunch was almost over, and I needed to start recording ASAP as possible! So, I came up with a pretty clever way to make Gabe stop with his snowball ideas. See, I thought I could CANCEL OUT his prank ideas altogether… with an ANTI-prank idea. Gabe wasn’t into it. Honestly? I have no idea WHY I thought that would work, I just thought it would… but it didn’t. So, I went all old-school on him and just told him straight-up to leave. But NICELY, obvi. And just like that, Gabe disappeared from my life just as quickly as he came. We all know evil scientists use middle school cafeterias as a place to destroy the evidence of their failed biological experimentations, but we’ve never seen proof… Until now. I’m Davy Spencer, and

Several of our own team members had been hit as well. Most had been caught only in the arm or the leg, but that was enough to remove them from the game. They were all shouting things at our mortar base that would have gotten them detention at a normal school.

While the drug war is undoubtedly a primary driver of our nation's incarceration explosion, it is inaccurate to depict it as the independent impetus of mass incarceration. The War on Drugs is only one of five pipelines currently funneling people into prison, jails, and detention centers nationwide. The other four carceral conduits are the crackdown on immigration offenses, decreased funding for mental health, private prisons and detention centers, and the school-to-prison pipeline.

I’m going to put Gobbles in detention.

The location of the relatively new juvenile detention center at the academy was supposed to be a secret, but of course Erica knew exactly where it was.

It was my norm to go to events high. I passed my driver’s exam high on weed, and I had intentionally gone to detention shrooming, just to see if I could do it without getting caught. I was determined to convince the world that every form of drug use should be legalized, determined to overthrow the authorities by proving their fickle policies futile. I was an advocate of anarchy, dead set on self-satisfaction. As a result, I went through most of high school either high, drunk, or locked up, with some sort of crumbled prescription up my nose.

I kinda have a favor to ask you,” I said placing my hand on his knee underneath his desk, finally having the confidence to touch him at school. The door was shut, so… it should be fine. Besides, Callan told me that he had been happy lately… with me. He cocked a brow. “And what is that?” “Do you think maybe”—I gazed over at him while my fingers wrapped around his bulge through his pants—“with your permission, I could skip Monday’s class?” “You can rub me off all you want, Sakura, but I’m not going to miss an hour of seeing you.

He could lie to me all he wanted, but I knew that he didn’t just think of me as another one of his students, as the smartest girl at Redwood Academy who loved literature. Callan had thought about me outside of school, just like I had thought about him.

Read me something.” My eyes widened. “You want me to read you this?” “Read it, then do that cute little analyzing thing you do after every paragraph in school.” Warmth exploded through my chest. Sakura thought it was… cute? “I don’t know if you want me to read you this book,” I said, chuckling. “This is a romance book that I—” “A romance book?!” Sakura giggled, placing her hand against her heart. “Mr. Avery—the most prolific, well-spoken reader at Redwood—likes smut?! I have never heard of such a thing!

By the way, I almost forgot to give this to you,” he said, pulling out a pink slip of paper from his pocket and handing it to me. I unfolded it to see DETENTION written in large red capital letters across the top along with a list of reasons, including my not telling him about Vaughn or about Gunther staying with me and—my favorite—because I can. A giggle escaped my lips, and I playfully pushed him. “You have detention after school on Monday,” Callan hummed, wrapping his hand around my neck from behind and gently craning my head back so I stared up at him. “Don’t be late, Miss Sato, or I’ll be forced to punish you.

You think if anyone finds out, they’ll say something to the principal? The school board? This is Redwood, Miss Sato. They don’t give a fuck if I bend my best student over my desk and fuck her senseless.

Your pussy is soaked for me, Miss Sato. Is this what you’ve been wanting every time you stay late? Hmm? Is this what all those early morning and after-school study sessions you’ve begged from me were for?

It was dangerous to flirt with her over school email, but she had started it. And I never left anything unfinished.

Jealous and desperate for attention. When I didn’t get it, I had to look for attention elsewhere. So I made friends with the kids at school who scared me: the ones who drank alcohol and went to parties and pierced their own ears at lunchtime with a needle and an ice cube. I stopped handing in my homework so I could hang out with these kids in detention after school rather than going home to a house full of churchy women who tutted every time they saw me—or worse, going home to my mother and John, who was starting to spend more and more time there.

Now Shig. Picture this: They stare at each other. From this angle, you can see how they fit together, these boys, like puzzle pieces, their elbows and shoulders modeled into one another by the years, the adventures, the skinned knees, the after school detentions. Then Twitchy tackles him. They're half hugging, half wrestling around the room, knocking into chairs and bed frames. Until they're not. Until they're just hugging, standing still in the middle of the barack, the world spins on around them, time slipping away from them, faster and faster, out of their control. Two boys who love each other, one going off to war.

Yesterday, Miss Dawes gave my son detention for forgetting his hearing aids,” Mom told the principal. “I understand why; it’s school policy and hearing aids are considered an important communication tool in the classrooms here. Do you know what else is important for communicating with Deaf students who sign? Fluency in ASL. Unfortunately, my six-year-old son is more fluent in ASL than his teacher.

At school, Pablo found it hard to concentrate. Rather than completing classwork, he filled the margins of his notebook with pencil sketches of animals, birds, and people. His teacher grew exasperated with his lack of attention. She wrote a note to his mother saying: “Pablo should stop drawing in class and pay attention to his lessons.” It was clear that Pablo hated rules, and he took every opportunity to disobey them. When adults told him what to do, he did the opposite. He once got in trouble for coloring the sky a bright red instead of the “normal” blue. Pablo was often banished to the “calaboose,” a bare cell with white walls and a bench, which served as a holding pen for unruly students. “I liked it there, because I took along a sketch pad and drew incessantly,” Pablo later said. “I could have stayed there forever drawing without stopping.” He even began misbehaving on purpose so that he would be sentenced to detention and sent to the calaboose. The one person who understood that Pablo wasn’t acting out for no reason was his father. One day when Pablo’s mother caught him drawing on the wall with a nail, Don José took him to the beach to blow off steam. As Don José stretched out to take a nap, Pablo sat beside him and drew a dolphin in the wet sand. When Don José awoke, he was astonished by the beauty of his son’s drawing. “Could it be Pablo who drew this?” he wondered. That afternoon, Don José took a closer look at the image Pablo had drawn on their living room wall. What at first looked like random scratches soon took shape. Don José recognized a reindeer and a bison running away from a group of men on horseback who were armed with bows and arrows. At that moment, Don José knew what to do to get Pablo to stop misbehaving. He decided to take him into his studio and teach his son how to paint. From that day onward, Pablo and his father were inseparable art partners. In search of new subjects to portray, they began going to the bullfights. Pablo was mesmerized by the sight of the brave picadors as they charged ferocious bulls. He saw El Lagartijo—“The Lizard”—one of the most famous bullfighters in Spain, and he met Cara Ancha,

What had Chris Hurley dreamt of being? What had Cameron Doomadgee? When Hurley was doing rugby training at a Christian Brothers school, Doomadgee was in a youth detention centre. By the time Hurley was setting up a sports club for kids on Thursday Island, Cameron had a child and a broken relationship. As Hurley picked his way along the police career path, the other man was like his shadow. The date of their meeting was gaining on him. Hurley had success in his name, Cameron had doom in his. But the bitter joke of reconciliation in Australia was that the lives of these two men were supposed to be weighed equally.

Cixi began to revolutionise China's legal system. In May 1902, she decreed a wholesale review of 'all existing laws...with reference to the laws of other nations...to ensure that Chinese laws are compatible with those of foreign countries'. With a legal reform team headed by a remarkable mind, Shen Jiaben, who had a comprehensive knowledge of traditional laws and had studied several differentWestern codes, a brand-new legal structure based on Western models was created in the course of the decade, covering a whole range of commercial, civil, criminal laws and judicial procedures. Cixi approved the team's recommendations and personally decreed many landmark changes. On 24 April 1905, the notorious 'death by a thousand cuts' was abolished, with a somewhat defensive explanation from Ci:xi that this horrific form of execution had not been a Manchu practice in the first place. In a separate decree, torture during interrogation was prohibited. Up to that point it was universally regarded as indispensable to obtain confessions; now it was deemed 'only permissible to be used on those whom there was enough evidence to convict and sentence to death, but who still would not admit guilt'. Cixi made a point of expressing her 'loathing' for those who had a penchant for torture, and warned that they would be severely punished if they failed to observe the. new constraints. Prisons and detention centres were to be run humanely; the abuse of inmates would not be tolerated. Law schools were to be set up in the capital and provinces, and law studies were to be made a part of general education. Under her a legal framework began to be constructed.

My detentions always have something to do with arguing. I’m fantastic at arguing, if I say so myself. I don’t think there’s anyone at Brightling who’s half as good at it as me. Principal Candiotti says the goal of middle school is to discover what you’ve got a knack for. Well, I’ve already done that, but do I get any credit for it? No. I get detention.

I will see every one of you in detention, first thing after school on Friday,

1. You CHEATED to WIN the avant-garde art competition!! 2. You totally RUINED my birthday party by SABOTAGING the chocolate fountain!! 3. You competed in the TALENT SHOW and landed a RECORD DEAL even though your application was INCOMPLETE (like, WHO names their band Actually, I’m Not Really Sure Yet?)!! 4. You WON the “Holiday on Ice” show, and EVERYBODY knows that you CAN’T ice-skate! 5. You TOILET-PAPERED my house!!!! 6. You tricked me into DIGGING through a DUMPSTER filled with GARBAGE in my designer dress at the Sweetheart Dance! 7. You actually KISSED my FBF (future boyfriend), BRANDON!! 8. You pretended to be seriously HURT during dodgeball so that I would get DETENTION (which, BTW, could totally RUIN my chances of getting into an Ivy League university)! 9. You put a nasty STINK BUG in my hair!! And the HORRIBLE THING that I just found out TODAY . . . 10. You’ve completely RUINED my reputation and HUMILIATED me, because now the ENTIRE school is passing around that AWFUL video of me having a meltdown about the bug that YOU put in my hair.

This wasn’t like detention. That’s pretty standard and easy, sitting in a room and twiddling your thumbs. This punishment was far worse - writing lengthy essays about myself in hopes that I get in touch with my feelings. You will find the evidence of these papers attached to this letter.

Shelly looked around the jamb again as though whatever animal that had been terrorizing her had a weapon. “That doesn’t look like typical rat shit. You may be right. This needs to be handled right now. You’re a lesbian, get in there and do battle.” “What does being gay have to do with trapping a squirrel?” “Two women live together, who kills the vermin?” Shelly asked with a hand on her hip. “The pest control people, that’s who.” “Butch up and get your ass in there. I won’t tell anyone if you scream like a five-year-old girl.” “I’m a femme lesbian, which puts me in the same class as you.” Ryann pointed to her face. “Note the makeup. Besides, you were the one who always played in the dirt and rode horses.” “There weren’t any squirrels in that dirt with me! I’ll pick up a bug or a frog, I even handled a grass snake once, but I do not deal with rodents.” Ryann leaned against the doorjamb and stared into the room. “It’s most likely under the couch. Where’s Grant?” “After-school detention for piercing his and the noses of his friends with pushpins.” Ryann stared at her in horror. “What is wrong with your kids?

Yet Kantarō felt that he himself was an obedient animal, no longer capable of effective resistance. To him it seemed that his father’s prolonged detention, the homes left defenseless while factories were being so solidly protected, and the repeated beatings of starving workers who were simply demanding to be paid, all stemmed from a single principle: only the great grow fat—and at the sacrifice of all the countless ones who are small. Long ago, Father had tried to unmask the village assemblymen who had diverted the funds intended for the construction of a school into playing with geishas. For that he had been shoved off the plank and his fall began. He had to keep falling until he could fall no further. It had nothing to do with fate. The little people fall to protect the big. For their sake we must all fall down all the way to rock bottom! But the time will come when the whole gigantic structure itself will be shaken from its foundation stones and collapse. It most certainly will.

Students will sometimes decide that they don’t like where they are sitting, and I probably won’t notice if they re-seat themselves over by their friend.  And they are right.  I’m very busy in class.  So if I don’t have a serious consequence, it’s worth it for them to take that gamble, and pretty soon it becomes rampant.  Then I start nagging, and I hate nagging.  So on the first time, I warn them that what they are doing is actually in the category of defiance which should earn them a referral, or at least a detention.

If you want to further understanding of systemic racism even more among the people you interact with, you can try to link to the systemic effects of racism whenever you talk about racism. Instead of posting on Facebook: “This teacher shouted a racial slur at a Hispanic kid and should be fired!” you can say all that, and then add, “This behavior is linked to the increased suspension, expulsion, and detention of Hispanic youth in our schools and sets an example of behavior for the children witnessing this teacher’s racism that will influence the way these children are treated by their peers, and how they are treated as adults.

This teacher shouted a racial slur at a Hispanic kid and should be fired!” you can say all that, and then add, “This behavior is linked to the increased suspension, expulsion, and detention of Hispanic youth in our schools and sets an example of behavior for the children witnessing this teacher’s racism that will influence the way these children are treated by their peers, and how they are treated as adults.

Make it simple, clear and coherent. #LessIsMore Strip out the tariffs and encourage problem solvers, not process monkeys. Agree visible consistencies that everyone commits to every day. Make it easy for adults and children to recognise good behaviour. Make emotional acceleration for adults unacceptable. Stay hard and fast to just three rules. Enshrine consistency in a single A4 collaborative agreement. Encourage restorative conversations. Replace detention for lack of work with impositions. Keep the time between action and consequence as short as possible.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” Chloe shrieked. “We’re looking at YEARS of detention! Our classmates will be seniors in high school and WE’LL still be in eighth grade, serving DETENTION! Do you have any idea how EMBARRASSING that is going to be?!

Dad never wore the gun home. David didn’t even know he had a boot knife. And he always wore an immaculately clean uniform, and shiny boots. Dad said it was just part of his job as a United States Air Force officer. But now he could line up with the homeless men on the sidewalk at the downtown Mission for a free meal, no questions asked. Dad

Without a narrative, life has no meaning. Without meaning, learning has no purpose. Without a purpose, schools are houses of detention, not attention.

I told Mr. Matsumoto that I created a mod to change my appearance in order to cheat on the test. But I decided not to go through with it because I had a change of heart. Mr. Matsumoto was so impressed with my honesty that he didn’t report me to the principal but gave me detention instead. Now I just stay after school practicing my scare technique with Mr. Matsumoto. I’m

Face the facts. Your life is too perfect. You probably lie awake at night, fantasizing about spicin’ up all that lily whiteness you live in.” But damn it, I get a whiff of vanilla from her perfume or lotion. It reminds me of cookies. I love cookies, so this is not good at all. “Gettin’ near the fire, chica, doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll get burned.” “You touch her and you’ll regret it, Fuentes,” Colin’s voice rings out. He resembles a burro, with his big white teeth and ears sticking out from his buzz cut. “Get the hell away from her.” “Colin,” Brittany says. “It’s okay. I can handle this.” Burro Face brought reinforcements: three other pasty white dudes, standing behind him for backup. I size up Burro Face and his friends to see if I can take them all on, and decide I could give all four a run for their money. “When you’re strong enough to play in the big leagues, jock boy, then I’ll listen to the mierda flyin’ out of your mouth,” I say. Other students are gathering around us, leaving room for a fight that is sure to be fast, furious, and bloody. Little do they know Burro Face is a runner. This time he’s got backup, though, so maybe he’ll stay to duke it out. I’m always prepared for a fight, been in more of ‘em than I can count on my fingers and toes. I’ve got the scars to prove it. “Colin, he’s not worth it,” Brittany says. Thanks, mamacita. Right back at ya. “You threatening me, Fuentes?” Colin barks, ignoring his girlfriend. “No, asshole,” I say, staring him down. “Little dicks like you make threats.” Brittany parks her body in front of Colin and puts her hand on his chest. “Don’t listen to him,” she says. “I’m not afraid of you. My dad’s a lawyer,” Colin brags, then puts his arm around Brittany. “She’s mine. Don’t ever forget that.” “Then keep a leash on her,” I advise. “Or she might be tempted to find a new owner.” My friend Paco comes up beside me. “Andas bien, Alex?” “Yeah, Paco,” I tell him, then watch as two teachers walk down the hall escorted by a guy in a police uniform. This is what Adams wants, perfectly planned to get my ass kicked out of school. I’m not falling into his trap only to end up on Aguirre’s hit list. “Si, everything’s bien.” I turn to Brittany. “Catch ya later, mamacita. I’m looking forward to researching our chemistry.” Before I leave and save myself from suspension on top of my detention, Brittany sticks that perky nose of hers in the air as if I’m the scum of the earth.

I reach into the hat and pull out a little white slip of paper. I open it slowly while I bite my lower lip in anticipation. In bold letters I read HAND WARMERS. “Hand warmers?” I question. Alex leans over and reads the paper with a confused look on his face. “What the fuck are hand warmers?” Mrs. Peterson shoots Alex a warning glare. “If you’d like to stay after school, I have another blue detention slip on my desk with your name already on it. Now, either ask the question again without using foul language or join me after school.” “That’d be cool to hang with you, Mrs. P., but I’d rather spend the time studyin’ with my chem partner,” Alex responds, then has the nerve to wink at Colin, “so I’ll rephrase the question. What exactly are hand warmers?” “Thermal chemistry, Mr. Fuentes. We use them to warm our hands.” Alex has this big, cocky grin as he turns to me. “I’m sure we can find other things to warm.” “I hate you,” I say loud enough for Colin and the rest of the class to hear. If I sit here and let him get the best of me, I’ll probably hear my mom tsk’ing in my head about reputation meaning everything. I know the class is watching out interaction, even Isabel, who thinks Alex isn’t as bad as everyone thinks he is. Can’t she see him for what he is, or is she blinded by his chiseled face and popular status among their friends? Alex whispers, “There’s a thin line between love and hate. Maybe you’re confusing your emotions.” I scoot away from him. “I wouldn’t bet on it.” “I would.

On the night of February, 26, 2012, Trayvon Martin was enjoying the fruits of a similar policy. Instead of being back in Miami in a juvenile detention facility, he was wandering through the streets of Sanford, high and angry. On two occasions in the previous few months, school police had detained him for what should have been crimes, once for drugs and another time for possession of stolen female jewelry and a burglary tool. The police fudged his record in both cases to help the department lower arrest statistics for young black men.14 Trayvon’s high school did not even tell his parents the real reason their son had been suspended from school. The parents thought it was everyday mischief, and they left him pretty much to his own devices.

Off the coast lies Vanity Island, and off Vanity lies Fan Fiction. Beyond Fan Fiction is School Essays and beyond that Excuses for Not Doing School Essays. The latter is often the most eloquent, constructed as it is in the white-hot heat of panic, necessity and the desire not to get a detention.

It was too beautiful that day to have to sit in a boring class, so my boyfriend suggested we skip school altogether. The next thing I knew, he grabbed my hand in his and we jumped over the fence to freedom. It felt like I was just released from prison. It was the most exhilarating day spent on a boat, with the warmth of the sun on my skin. That is, until I made it home. The principal had already notified my parents of my absence. I was doomed for a week of detention.