A Pleasure to have in class
In the second grade, I had a teacher who I knew to be nothing other than an absolute bitch. I don’t remember exactly why I thought this, but I do remember that as a sheltered eight year old in the 90’s, I knew calling someone the “B word” was a heinous act and should only be used in the most extreme circumstances. So while I would never say it out loud, deep inside I knew that this woman warranted nothing less than the harshest of labels.
Over twenty years later, 13 of which have been spent working with children in one capacity or another, I now have a slightly different opinion. What’s more likely than a 60 year old woman being a straight up bitch, is a 60 year old teacher who is on the verge of retirement and hanging on by a thread. To make matters worse, I was a second grader in fall of 1996, and was therefore most likely in a post-Matilda (Matilda, 1996) **haze. I was likely banking on my teacher having a tender, soft spoken demeanor just like Miss Honey. The reality however, was probably that with each passing autumn, my poor teacher watched as a little more of her sanity drifted away like the fluttering leaves outside.
What’s even more likely is that sometime throughout the 25 years prior, that woman probably realized that being strict and rigid in her teaching, might not make her the most popular educator in the building, but it would allow her to succeed in teaching some increasingly defiant generations of children for the next two decades. Now, as a 35 year old adult, with a lifetime of experiences making me kinda bitchy **too, I have to admit this one truth: I might never know exactly why I thought my second grade teacher was a bitch, but I do know now, that she was also a damn good teacher.
Today, I am a finally going to embrace that fact, and take the advice she gave me over twenty years ago. Well, technically this advice was relayed to me after a parent-teacher conference where my mom and dad were told that I had a “gift for writing”, and I should be “writing everyday” to continue improving my skills. My father has clung to this review, and has proceeded to remind me of it numerous times throughout my life. This reminder was especially abundant during times like when I was chosen three years in a row to attend a “Young Writers Workshop” at the local university. Then again, when I was chosen out of my entire sixth grade class to read my speech at our D.A.R.E. graduation. (Like I said, it was the 90’s and I was a sheltered kid.) But I was sort of used to this type of attention because I was a, “pleasure to have in class” type student. I never really saw these opportunities as an affirmation of my writing skills, but rather as a nod to my perfect classroom behavior.
So, my notoriety as a child writer would began to dwindle just as my success in middle school athletics would begin to flourish. You see, in the rural Midwest, academic success will never get you the same accolades as being a star athlete. So, without even being aware of it, I shifted my focus from school… to sports. For the next decade, I would find decent success as an athlete, while always having an itch in the back of my mind to write little stories or poems. This itch tried it’s darndest to direct my life, so much so that at the start of college, I had chosen a major in journalism. But eventually, after a lifetime of being the “perfect student”, I changed my major and would eventually become… a bitchy teacher.
The problem with that, of course, is that I am neither tender and soft spoken, nor strict and rigid. I am opinionated and free spirited. So with a Bachelor’s Degree in art education, a State of Ohio teaching license, and 26 years spent sitting in classrooms, I find myself completely incapable of spending another second within the walls of a school. I’ve quit my job and am currently floundering to find what’s next. Fortunately, in a way that seems to keep happening during this midlife crisis of mine, destiny keeps finding me in the most unexpected of ways. After a literal mental breakdown during what would ultimately be my last year as a teacher, I began seeking forms of what I call, DIY therapy. Without much thought, writing has quickly become one of my go to strategies for managing my mental health. From journal prompts, to tarot cards, no form of inspiration is off limits and I’ve begun writing almost everyday. I am writing everything from poetry to short stories, by hand and in Google Docs. But with my paychecks from teaching about to run out, it’s time to start sourcing some income.
That was when, a few weeks ago, while scrolling through the thousands of job postings for administrative assistants and office managers, I saw a listing for “freelance writer”, and suddenly, it was like that itch in the back of my head was screaming at me to “wake the fuck up!” So, I did some research (ok, I searched “freelance writer” on TikTok), and decided freelance writing just means I can write about whatever the hell I want, and people will pay me for it; I mean, kinda.
I’m not an idiot. I know capitalism drives everything we do, and so what I write will ultimately need to be useful in one way or another. But at very least, writing will give me an outlet; a place to put my thoughts, my feelings, my opinions. I can rant and boldly express my ideas without being interrupted by contradictions. What a gift that type of freedom would provide for a “pleasure to have in class” type person like me.
So, while I know my writing is not yet at the high standards that Miss Honey and my second grade teacher might expect, I don’t see why that should keep me from pursuing this form of expression. At this point, I don’t really have anything to loose, and one thing I did learn from my years as an athlete, it’s that practice makes improvement. Even more important, one thing I’ve learned from my years as a teacher, is that I can figure out how to do pretty much anything.
