I think that school just isn't for everyone. A lot of people

The words of Molly Crabapple—“I think that school just isn't for everyone. A lot of people don't learn well when they're - have to sit in a place for eight hours. A lot of people learn best lying in their own bed, teaching themselves from books. And I was a bad student. I was a brat. If I was a teacher, I would not have liked myself”—are not merely a confession of youthful rebellion, but a profound reflection on the nature of learning itself. They speak to the ancient truth that wisdom cannot be forced into the mold of one method, nor can the flame of curiosity be confined to a single room or rigid schedule.

The origin of such an insight lies in the struggle between conformity and individuality that has existed since the birth of schools. The classical academies of Athens, the monasteries of medieval Europe, the modern classrooms of today—all sought to train the young in the ways of knowledge. Yet alongside them lived another tradition: the self-taught, the restless spirits who broke away from structure to learn in their own way. Crabapple’s words stand in this lineage, declaring that the path to understanding is as diverse as the souls who seek it.

Consider the story of Thomas Edison, who as a child was deemed “difficult” and nearly unteachable by his schoolmasters. He fidgeted, daydreamed, asked too many questions. Teachers saw him as a brat, a distraction to the order of the classroom. Yet at home, with books and experiments of his own making, he flourished. His mother withdrew him from the schoolhouse, and through self-teaching, he grew into one of history’s greatest inventors, shaping the modern age with light and sound. Like Crabapple, he revealed that what is called failure in one setting may be the beginning of genius in another.

The emotional power of Crabapple’s words is their candor. She admits her flaws—a bad student, a brat—and yet hidden within that rebellion was the spark of independence. Many who do not thrive under rigid systems come to believe they are unworthy, dull, or incapable. But her reflection reveals the opposite: that their failure is not of intellect, but of environment. The human mind is not uniform; some learn best through discipline and repetition, others through solitude and freedom. To deny this diversity is to crush potential.

Her quote also challenges the arrogance of institutions. Schools often measure success by obedience: the ability to sit still, to follow directions, to regurgitate lessons. But true learning is deeper. It is hunger for knowledge, the courage to question, the will to explore. When Crabapple says she would not have liked herself as a teacher, she acknowledges that even she would have judged her young self harshly. But the greater wisdom is this: the so-called difficult child may one day become the one who reshapes the world.

The lesson is clear: do not mistake rebellion for ignorance, nor restlessness for weakness. Many who seem unteachable in the classroom are simply waiting for the right soil in which their roots can grow. Parents, teachers, and communities must therefore cultivate flexibility—honoring both structure and independence, offering both guidance and freedom. To recognize the individuality of each learner is to honor the richness of humanity itself.

What, then, shall we do? Let us not shame those who do not thrive in the classroom, but encourage them to find other paths to wisdom. Let us value self-teaching, curiosity, and passion as highly as formal instruction. Let us look upon the restless student not as a brat, but as a soul seeking a different rhythm. And let us remember in our own lives that when one way of learning fails us, another may yet awaken our strength.

Thus, Molly Crabapple’s words, spoken in humility, become a timeless teaching: that education is not a prison but a journey, not a single road but a vast landscape with many trails. Whoever learns this will never despair at their struggles, but will seek their own path, guided by the truth that the fire of knowledge can burn brightly—even outside the walls of a school.