I’ve never been incredibly graceful.
In fact, I am indeed weird
and often awkward.
I think it’s a side effect of having a brain that
thrives in the possibility of
dreams and meaningful living.
In 2004, I was a brand new teacher.
By fate’s hand, I landed
a gig. And big!
Senior English. 11s and 12s.
The school was called Ryeland, known for being on the other side of the tracks.
I always wondered where the tracks were
I don’t remember hearing any trains.
I was tossed into a station where my students
were only a whole hand younger than me,
and they knew it.
I knew it.
At the time, I was still being ID’d at liquor stores and inspected for fraud at nightclubs.
My skin was too soft. My eyes too unwrinkled. My vulnerability too obvious.
As a newbie, my seven classes were in four different classrooms, and each class didn’t have much room, but each room had much class.
And I was the nerd meant to teach them.
The first weeks went better than I had anticipated. The students sensed fresh meat
but
they seemed to be cheering for me, rooting for the underdog,
clearly seen running between classes,
Chaucer and Shakespeare trailing behind,
notes of poetry
dropping from sealed envelopes
revealing a life-long love of literature.
Then there was week three.
In a particularly plum study of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,
I got too close to character study and I had my Randle Patrick McMurphy moment.
Okay, okay, that’s dramatic.
But, I did crow on theatrically about Nurse Ratched and her wretched running of the psychiatric ward, tyrannizing her patients through abuse, medication and sessions of electroconvulsive therapy.
Energetically flinging my arms and my hopes around the room.
Then, I saw something.
I witnessed the expansion of their minds.
I watched them watch me
intently
and I held the metaphorical watermelon of information then smashed it, punctuating my point perfectly, sanely articulating insanity, measuring McMurphy’s profanity, navigating emasculation and sexuality, allowing my voluntary commitment to literature to explain society’s involuntary compulsion to force outliers to commit themselves.
They smiled.
They nodded.
They looked at each other with flashing eyes.
There was almost a giddy energy.
They watched my show and looked ready to subscribe.
As the bell rang for break, I felt the rush of my passion for literature magnified by my love of sharing it with others.
We bonded in week three.
I skipped to the breakroom, knowing I was nailing it.
Then
I saw.
I moved closer to the mirror. No, no nonononononononooo. I pressed my face so close to the glass, the condensation from my breath caused a broad fog.
Back then, we taught exclusively with whiteboards. The EXPO felt tip markers often at a premium, I kept a rainbow collection stashed in my bag
so I would always have access to colour.
I guess.
In my mess of ridiculous crowing on of Nurse Ratched and her wretched running of the psychiatric ward,
I must have put the open pen on my lip.
I had a giant blue smudge across the left lobes of my lips, bottom and top.
This wasn’t the gentle sky blue either,
my face sported navy, and the marks went outside my lip line and completely beyond my comfort.
The irony wasn’t lost. I was sermonizing the societal sensation of sanity while completely making a fool of myself.
And the students weren’t inspired.
They were…
I squirmed inside myself, replaying my motions of devotion to their education.
I was accidentally my own sideshow. I wasn’t inspiring. I was entertaining. In a laugh-at-you-not-with-you kinda way.
Even now, when I replay the story again and again and again in my brain like a highlight reel of shame,
I feel the heat rise to my cheeks,
and the bubble of giggle meets the rise of a groan in my throat. I would have preferred that blue buried.
I’ve never been incredibly graceful.
In fact, I am indeed weird and often awkward, covered in blue pen.
I think it’s a side effect of having a brain that
thrives in the possibility of dreams and meaningful living.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Make It Matter 
Leave a comment