In Which We Learn Why Laurel Fears School Yards

I can’t remember having a lot of dreams about what I wanted to be when I grew up. Before the age of 10, I accepted many Oscars in the privacy of my bedroom, considered life as a high-powered lawyer and said I wanted to be a nurse just because the girl sitting next to me in kindergarten wanted to be one, too, but clearly none of that stuck.

It was around third or fourth grade that the notion of “writer” started to percolate in my brain, but it really was more of a slow burn than an overwhelming “aha!” The "aha" came later.

As I grew up, so much of my attention was focused on getting in to college that I don’t think I did a very good job of thinking about what was going to happen after that. Once I finally did consider that I would have to do something after the age of 22, a master’s degree and Ph.D. sounded nice. For awhile, I thought I could live a life devoted to scholarship.

The closest proximity of what I wanted my life to be was something like that of the mom in The Family Stone (spoiler alert: only hopefully without the cancer and dying part). I could see myself in a small college town with an old house full of books and kids. I, of course, would be one of the most popular professors, and I would always dress impeccably despite the rigors of academia (that’s probably the part I messed up on most, see freelance pants). There was me in straight skirts, sweater sets and heels, arms full of papers to grade, running across campus while my adoring students waved and wanted to stop for engaging and thoughtful discussions about writings, theories and treatises.

Then, I became a substitute teacher at 22. I had left my job at the Justice Department in D.C., moved home and needed some cash flow while I figured out my next step. (I didn’t get in to graduate school on my first go-round of applications, so I was right back in that “what to do now that college is over” place.)

Now, I realize substitute teaching isn’t quite the same as full-time teaching. As one HR rep said to me during a job interview, “I mean that’s really more glorified babysitting than teaching. I don’t even know why it’s on your resume.”

He was a charmer.

It didn’t matter though. I couldn’t stand a single moment of it. While I like children, I really do, I prefer them in groups no greater than five. (I kind of like all people that way, really.) I often found the children disobedient, loud and at least in my case, deaf to the sound of my voice.

“I will send you to the principal’s office!” and “You’re giving me a headache” came out of my mouth more often than anything else. Only, I never sent anyone to the principal’s office. (The headaches were real.) I watched the clock and prayed for 3:00.

Even when I transferred to the elementary school from the junior high – as we all know adolescence is such a dark time – it didn’t improve.

And then there were the mornings. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 7:45 a.m. just isn’t for me. 

I decided I’d be so much better when I was teaching college students. After all, they were at least 18. Surely, they were mature, eager-to-learn and respectful.

During my second year of graduate school, I began my teaching practicum. I couldn’t wait to share my love of writing with my class. This is when my dream would begin to materialize, I thought.

While my first semester wasn’t so bad, the winter was a dark, dark time. Another teacher visited my class once and said it was one of the worst classes she’d ever seen. I’m pretty sure she compared them to “a wolf pack.” (There were a few lovely students, but overall, it was not good.)

In addition to the not listening, I now had outright defiance and even a student who called me a bitch after seeing his grade. Every day felt like it was Lord of the Rings, and I was Piggy.

I chose silent grammar exercises for them and more clock staring for myself.

In my last semester, which happened to be the summer, I was thrilled about the shorter term. I was not as thrilled when one of my students approached me after the first class and said, “Just so you know, if I don’t pass your class, I’m going to file a complaint with the English department and the dean. Your attendance policy doesn’t work for me.”

(I always thought I wouldn’t care if my students cut class or not. They were going to love learning so much; I’d never have to worry about it. They were adults. Then I learned that it really pissed me off to spend hours preparing a lesson and only have half the class show up. Hence, the attendance policy.)

At 26, I was officially done with teaching and the cute little dream that involved a quaint college town and a wrap-around porch.

Two years later, I went back to teaching, but this time it was in a continuing education program. (There was a lot of arm-twisting.) Once my students realized I was the teacher and not another student, the discussions seemed to go pretty smoothly. To my complete surprise, I found that I loved teaching. These students did want to be there. I didn’t care when anyone skipped, and there were genuine moments when I knew I had actually imparted some knowledge.

And as cheesy (and selfish) as it sounds, I learned as much from my students as they hopefully learned from me. I remembered what I loved about writing. I remembered why I did it. I was inspired to go home and tell my own stories.

It seems the median age for all of my students should be 40.

(I’m going to take a brief moment here to challenge that whole “people who can’t do, teach” sentiment. Teaching is really hard. Taking something that is instinctual and habit to you and breaking it down to its basic elements for others is damn hard.  When you throw in that not every student learns the same way, so you often have to break a concept down anywhere from one to fifteen different ways, it is even harder. Teachers most definitely deserve our respect, and I give a special shout-out to the ones in junior highs across the country.)

This last week, I was thrown back into a room with over 20 nine and ten-year-olds. I tried, but it was rough, and sometimes it’s rougher when I know how much better other people are at it. (Even though we can’t all be good at everything, I’d prefer it if I was.)

Once my 45-minute class was over (I can spend two and a half hours with adults, and I needed 10 minutes of filler with the kids) and my voice was hoarse and my pride hurt, I pulled one of the counselors who had been at the back of the class aside.

“Can you tell that I don’t normally work with children?”

At least she laughed.