I’m fine. That’s what I’m supposed to say, anyway. It’s not easy work trudging through life when depression is likely to smack you down any second. But existence beats the alternative. Or so I’ve been told. I’ve never heard from anyone who has clear memories of not existing. Then how could you? How to comprehend the void? The endless abyss. Eternal darkness. Actually it wouldn’t even be dark, because it wouldn’t be.
There are times that I hold out hope for some sort of after life. I like to think you get a second chance at it all. That would be grand. Maybe you get to live your life several times until you get it right. If so I’m in still in the early stages. So many mistakes I’ve made. But maybe I’m too hard on myself. Maybe I focus on all that I’ve done wrong and haven’t reflected enough on life’s blessings and all the happiness I’ve enjoyed and my good choices.
So some form of reincarnation might be in the cards. It makes more sense than the stereotypical Christian belief of a heaven where God sits on a throne. That all seems rather silly.
Maybe we become angels. Angels are often depicted in literature as being eternally frustrated because they can’t effect events on Earth, they merely get to look on. That’s the wonderful thing about being a living human: all the choices you get to make. It’s constant. Like moments ago I decided to write. Before that I checked my email and various websites I frequent. Later I might choose to start a new book having just finished one.
There’s a lot of instances in which I’m not making decisions, or not new ones anyway. On work days I wake up at the same time. Get out of bed. Turn on the kitchen light. Enter the bathroom, answer mother nature’s call, shower, moisturize, dress, turn on more lights, get my tea ready, empty the dishwasher, eat breakfast, move to the easy chair etc. Pretty much the same everyday. I don’t wear the same clothes everyday, of course, so I choose my outfit for the day. I walk the same route to work and do a lot of the same things once I arrive.
Teaching is a constant whirl of making decisions. At least in teaching English to foreigners as I do. To follow a script everyday is madness. You’ve got to constantly be improvising based on what’s working, what’s not, what’s needed, what’s not. Sometimes students need you to spend more time on one topic, sometimes less. Sometimes they need to be shaken out of a rut with an activity. You call audibles.
There’s great variety on a teaching day because you’re dealing very directly with your fellow human beings. In my case anywhere from seven to eighteen (currently fifteen). In my current situation these students — though mostly in their late teens and early twenties — are of all ages. I currently have a sixty-five year old Taiwanese woman along with people less than a third her age. I have students from Peru, China, Saudi Arabia, France, South Korea, Japan, Italy, Spain, Switzerland and the aforementioned Taiwan. The overwhelming majority of my students are darlings. At the same time most have a serious addiction to their cell phones but that’s the way of the world and there’s no use pretending otherwise.
My students are depending on me. Though I don’t really feel it, I’m under a lot of pressure. They’re paying a fair amount of money to improve their English. I’ve got to deliver. I need to provide engaging, interesting lessons that will move their English forward. I have to tend to their individual needs and simultaneously those of the class as a whole. I also feel duty bound to be entertaining. People respond better to a teacher with a personality and sense of humor who is conscious of not boring people.
I don’t really feel the weight of my job and its inherent responsibilities. I know the drill. I’ve been at this for 38 years in one form or another. There’s no need to be philosophical about it. You just show up everyday and give a hundred percent. You know at the end of the day if you’ve done a good job or stunk the place up. I’m consistent because I care about my students and take pride in my work.
Ya know what I’ve always hated? Those signs that say: “teaching is my superpower.” Horseshit. It’s just a fucking job. My father never walked around saying: “carpentry is my superpower.” He went to work everyday and did a good job. That’s all there is to it. That teaching is my superpower nonsense grows out of a culture that feels guilty for paying teachers shit wages. It’s supposed to make us feel better that we get paid crap relative to other white collar professions. We also get national teacher’s day and sometimes we’re asked to stand and accept a round of applause at sports event. Fuck that. Pay us.
Teaching is a noble profession but so is custodial work, accounting, journalism, and bagging groceries. We’re all contributing to society. Save your applause until the end.
Am I bitter? Not at all. I’m privileged. I’ve been able to perform a job I’ve loved for a long time. I’ll be seventy-one in a month and I’m still going strong. I may be staring eternity in the face but at least I have a pretty cool job.
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