The Sonata Allegro of a Writing Teacher

(To be performed in a slightly melodramatic tone by a young, enthusiastic teacher)

My first year teaching I was ready. I purchased sensible shoes in both brown and black, bought the kind of binders that have rings so big they could be worn as a trendy choker necklace, and wrote the most detailed lesson plans ever conceived. I fancied myself a true English scholar, and my goal was to teach my ninth grade students to analyze, analyze, analyze the literary classics so they could argue a thesis statement as if their lives depended on it.

When I thought about what my school year would look like, I envisioned neat stacks of analytical essays, carefully typed and perfectly proofread, and I dreamed of spending my evenings in a comfy chair, reading students’ words and sipping peppermint tea. Occasionally, I thought, I’d pause to read a well-turned phrase aloud or to contemplate a thought provoking point made by the author. When I felt my eyes grow heavy, I would push through until the early hours of the morning, knowing my hard work would be rewarded in May with astounding test scores and grateful students.