Last night I had a dream about teaching. This is not an unusual occurrence - I dream about teaching with punishing regularity. Last summer I dreamt about it almost every night. The worst is when the school year is in session and I teach all day and dream it all night. Then there is no respite, and it makes me want to shriek.

So I wasn't surprised when I woke up and realized that I'd been dreaming of teaching again. But I was surprised when I remembered the details of the dream. For once, I wasn't screaming vainly at a chaotic mass of rebellious teens. For once, my students weren't disappearing or multiplying. For once, I was teaching in my subject area.

I was in Theresa's class this time. I got up to quell a disruption and found myself in charge. Somehow I knew that it was a grade 11 class, and I know that curriculum inside & out. There was no fear, just a whispered consultation with Theresa & a smooth transition into the Short Story unit.

And yet despite confidence-boosting dreams like this, I'm still very glad to be out of the classroom this semester. I keep remembering my first day at Hogsboro High - the high expectations, the elaborate preparations, the butterflies, the joy in my brand-new career - and the way it all fell apart in the first 10 minutes. There was the class that wouldn't stop talking for 30 consecutive seconds, the class with a rogue's gallery of well-dressed but desperately immature rich kids, the class that didn't get any better in a long, long semester. There was the class of dead-eyed seniors who wanted their smoke breaks & their fifth English credit (in that order), and who mostly wanted to be left alone to nurse hangovers & learning disabilities & resentment. There was the over-crowded class of 10's who were like a basket of tumbling puppies by comparison to the others, but still rocked n' rolled with enough problems to keep me awake at night.

On my way home from this first day, I squinted into the looming sunset & cried without ceasing. I cried into the margarita that was supposed to be a celebration & a reward for my first day as a grown up. I cried on the Boy's shoulder as he held me & looked helpless. I cried that whole sleepless night. For months the only time I wasn't crying was when I was in front of a class, trying desperately to keep it all from unravelling. And then the counselling came, and the drugs, and the artificial calm, and then the slow-growing competence that was better than a drug, and then the Sprout who taught me to look forward.

But the fact remains that I've never been a successful teacher without incorporating either drugs or a foetus. Now you can understand why I'm happy that the test has been delayed a few more months.

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- Rocketbride's adventure of 8/30/2004 03:39:00 p.m.