Sour Patch Kid

This week I began teaching an assortment of classes as a teacher is wont to do at the beginning of a new semester. Amidst the slew of writing classes I will lead, I have one lone gem—a literature survey course. For many English teachers the survey course is the bane of their existence...same material, slow pace, weak students…but I have to be honest. I’m excited just to be teaching literature at all. At least I was until today.

Closeted within most teachers is a small voice that screams out huge negativities. These thoughts are not always completely unreasonable, but they usually lean toward exacerbated, habitual and generally untrue. The voice in my head is no exception. It screams and shouts about my incompetence, my lack of sufficient preparation (regardless of the amount of time I’ve put it), and my complete lack of interest to anyone but myself. I hear it every time I get up in front of a class that’s not about writing.

Don’t get me wrong, I want to teach literature. And I think I’m going to be damn good at it if I’m not damn good already. That doesn’t stop the clawing voices though. Nothing stops those voices. Today, however, was a special treat.

The second day in my Intro to Lit class brought me two new students. One was very inconspicuous and seemed nice. The other also seemed nice, and while he may have been aiming for inconspicuous, there was something in the look on his face that just wouldn’t allow me to stop noticing him. Perhaps it was his v-neck sweater neatly draped over his seersucker striped shorts, that made me stare. Whatever it was, throughout our class discussion and the entire class I found my eyes glancing often at this boy.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t because he was cute, attractive, alluring, etc. This kid represents pretty much the scariest person who could possibly show up in my class. He was the embodiment of that little voice in my head. Perhaps it was the sneering expression, the arms crossed across his chest, which shouted so loudly of indifference. Maybe it was the nonchalant way he would get up and leave for a couple minutes, even though we’d just taken a break, that illustrated the insignificance of what I was doing up in front of the class. It could’ve been the way he kept exhaling loudly, almost sniffing at what he deemed to be weak, poorly composed questions in the front of the class. Whatever it was, this kid and his mean eyes scored me right down the middle today. Sure, I got through it. Yes, I did let class out about 30 minutes early, but I got through it.

Next week, when I go back to that classroom to talk about new stories, about Hawthorne, Pritchett and other great, amazing writers…I will be channeling my old professors. Perhaps they will be able to ward off the nasty looks of this impostor for me. If they can’t help, rest assured I’ll be out of the gate fighting this time. No home town preppie is going to scare me out of Hawthorne or any other writer for that matter.