How I Became a More Annoying Girlfriend Since I Started Teaching

Setting: A local dive bar with dim lights, crowded with college students and cigarette smoke. There is a sorority party going on in the background. Could be Disney themed. Maybe Italian Renaissance. No one cares. A small group of girls are in the corner celebrating a birthday. One realizes that a member of the squad is missing; she’s probably at the bar again. Curtain raises.

“I can honestly say I never tied a student’s shoelace before…”

Spotlight appears and on sets on a young woman sitting on a bar stool. Ms. S, a student teacher, is tall, blonde, and has uncannily dark circles under her eyes; she’s not used to hanging out this late. Or talking to people her own age. She regrets the blazer she’s wearing. She sips on a Jack Honey and Coke because Jack and Coke is too strong, but no one will notice the difference. She might switch to coffee next. She is talking to an Unnamed Frat Boy who is too interested in Ms. S’ life for her own liking, but she’s lazy and can’t find another bar stool or her friends.

Unnamed Frat Boy: “So that’s the only difference between elementary and high school?”

Ms. S: “No, I also don’t use stickers. Or encouragement. I’m kidding; I love stickers.”

Unnamed Frat Boy: “Cool, so you’re like Zooey Deshanel in New Girl?”

Ms. S, sardonically: “No, more like Robin Williams’ character in Dead Poet’s Society combined with Cameron Diaz’s in Bad Teacher.”

Unnamed Frat Boy doesn’t laugh. Ms. S leaves. The stage is cleared for Ms. S’ monologue.

Ms. S: “So last Sunday, I was planning lessons for the week when I realized that I have morphed into an even more annoying girlfriend that ever before, right after of course my boyfriend asked me if I wanted Jimmy John’s for lunch and I replied by yelling something about how standardized testing is destroying the future. A lot of men, including Unnamed Frat Boy, harbor this deceitful perception that dating a teacher is greatest thing ever: super sweet, thoughtful, already knows how to raise children, always has glitter in her hair. This is not true. My poor boyfriend, let’s call him Shakespeare, has witnessed and endured the evolution of his girlfriend turning into an aggressively passionate, obsessive compulsive, free-time martyring future educator. In fact, it’s pretty funny thinking about the first time he saw me in a ‘teacher environment,’ that one time I thought it was a good idea to bring a date to the school’s homecoming game…” Curtain falls.

Setting: Sporebury’s football stadium during their high-stakes homecoming game. Stands are packed out with students, teachers, parents, and high school dropouts networking for jobs or girlfriends. Ms. S sits in the far, desolate corner of the stadium with Shakespeare. It’s drizzling and cold, but yet the two are at a noticeably awkward distance apart. Shakespeare is a ridiculously tall red head. He’s hipster. Not hipster enough to have a full, full beard, but hipster enough to deny his hipster-ness. His dad makes record players for a living. Shakespeare and Ms. S are “exclusively dating,” because the words b**f***** and g***f***** are too strong, just like Jack and Cokes.

Shakespeare: You really think you won’t run into any of your students here?
Ms. S: Oh no, the student section is completely on the other side of the stadium. We’re fine.

A mob of freshmen suddenly engulf the couple.

Student 1: OOH! Ms. S! Is this Mr. S?

Student 2: Ms. S is on a HOT DATE!

Student 3: Introduce us!

Students 4-20: WHOISTHISWHOISTHISWHOISTHIS

Shakespeare, suddenly standing up to join the freshmen with his arms crossed: Yeah, Ms. S. Who am I? What are we?

Ms. S runs away.

A couple months progress and Ms. S and Shakespeare are finally dating-dating while Ms. S’ mind is slowly deteriorating.

Setting: Date night. The couple has plans to go downtown Atlanta for dinner and drinks, but Ms. S falls in a deep, comatose-like sleep on the couch. She covers herself in student essays and Chipotle burrito wrappers. Suddenly, she wakes up.

Ms. S, in a panicked mood: WHAT TIME IS IT. Is it Sunday or Wednesday?! What does the morning commute look like?!

Shakespeare: It’s 5pm on a Friday. Go back to sleep. Curtain falls.

Setting: Ms. S and Shakespeare are having a heated fight about whose turn it is to choose which show to watch on Netflix. Although it Ms. S’ turn to pick, Shakespeare insists on watching his shows even though Ms. S sits THROUGH HOURS OF FOOD TRUCK RACE WITHOUT COMPLAINING–

Shakespeare: You are so selfish. Your taste in television is the worst in the world.

Ms. S, activating Teacher Stare (see story #1): Excuse me? What did you just say young man?

Shakespeare: You heard me. I literally just said—

Ms. S: Use your words.

Shakespeare, disgusted: What? Are you using a teacher voice on me??

Ms. S: Look me in the eyes and think about your choices.

Shakespeare: This is making me more pissed off…

Ms. S: Go get some water and come back when you’re ready to take responsibility for your actions. Don’t make me call your mom.

Setting: Shakespeare’s birthday. Shakespeare’s wearing his favorite tie. Ms. S is wearing two or three day old makeup.

Shakespeare, in an excited manner: Where are we going to celebrate tonight, babe?
Ms. S: Hmm, help me grade these vocab quizzes before we think about leaving the apartment? Okay? Okay.

Despite my increasing insanity, I think the most insane thing of all is that I still want to be a teacher after this year. All jokes aside, dating a teacher is actually quite awesome, I would imagine, because there is nothing more raw and special than true, authentic passion to use the upcoming generation to make the world a better place.

Curtain falls.

Please applaud.

One Epiphany, Extra Relish

His name was Tim, but all the kids called him Penguin.

I suppose he did bear a superficial resemblance to Danny DeVito’s character in Batman Returns – keg-shaped body, shortish legs, arms that pinwheeled wildly when he got excited – but it wasn’t a kind nickname, and it’s not how I thought of him.

See, in my class he was one of those kids who radiated warmth. He wasn’t the best writer or the most clever thinker or the most eloquent speaker, but he succeeded through sheer force of will. Whatever we were doing, Tim dug in with both feet, leveled his shoulders, and pushed. And he was usually smiling while he did it, luxuriating in the effort.

That day, the weather may as well have been ripped straight out of a Central Coast photo album: a high cerulean sky shot through with clouds in ragged streamers and wispy tendrils, the barest touch of a spring breeze whispering its fingers through the palms. It was lunch, and I was heading across campus on an errand to the main office. I saw Tim from a distance, sitting cross-legged under a tree, lunch tray in his lap, the hard plastic rectangle piled high with something indistinct.

As I got closer, Tim’s tray resolved itself, and I laughed as I saw that it held a pyramid of six hot dogs, stacked with architectural precision.

I stopped and looked down at him. Tim’s nose was buried in a book, and he hadn’t yet noticed my presence.

“Six hot dogs, Tim?”

He looked up. Looked down at his tray. Looked back up again. And smiled. Pure. Genuine.

“But Mr. M – they’re just so good.”

I don’t know what became of Tim. What he did after he graduated, where he went, whom he married, where he works now. But I carry that moment with me, even ten years later. Things weren’t easy for Tim, but he’d never let you know it. That’s rare, and worth emulating.

This, too, I learned, above all else: Enjoy the simple things and share that joy with others.

I don’t know what became of Tim. But I thank him, and I wish him well.