When I was in school we were always allowed to take two class pictures: one serious, where everyone sat all straight-backed and put their knees together like ladies and stared coyly at the camera, and one completely goofy. In the goofy one people were usually falling all over each other and rabbit ears multiplied like — well. We would loosen our ties (yes, we wore ties. Shut up.), puff up our pinafores even more than they already were puffed, and dangle lanky adolescent limbs in awkward positions. If we liked the class teacher we had that year, we would dangle over her, too. And she’d try to maintain her decorum, but grin.

I have a class picture from this year’s teaching. It was taken in December, when I knew I was leaving and all the boys already hated me deeply — not because I was awful to them, although sometimes I was, but because I didn’t know how to show them I cared about them even though they were eating me alive. It’s an odd picture — half of them are missing, because they were suspended that day or something, and the other half look heartbreakingly neat and pressed. There are a couple of megawatt smiles, and a couple of furious scowls. My head is tilted at a weird angle because I am trying not to let tears run out of my eyes.

I really wish I’d known how to let them have their serious picture and their goofy picture, too.

Anyhoo — this isn’t supposed to be a melancholy post. Go check out those wondrous dudes in the picture… and dream of the lives they ended up living. Goodnight.

I’ve talked to a lot of people lately about how things had been going at work, how anxious and frustrated I had become, and above all how incredibly ambivalent I’ve felt ever since I resigned.

I’ve talked to a lot of sweet, wise, beautiful, warm human beings who love me very much and who want nothing more than for me to be happy. And they have all, no matter what they may have thought in their secret-est hearts, responded with understanding, compassion, and support. No matter what they may have thought in their secretest hearts, they’ve told me that after all, I tried my best and what more can a person do? They’ve told me that it’s okay to change my mind about what I want to do, that teaching isn’t for everyone, and that they believe in me no matter what. They’ve told me that they think I made the right decision for myself. That I am not a failure.

And yet, nearly three weeks after my last day in what was ostensibly the environment that was causing me so much anguish, the anguish remains – more palpable than ever.

Tonight, after carrying around a $5 phone card in my pocket for the past seven days, I finally dug through a stash of old emails and unearthed Kubhaer’s number in Malaysia. Some of you reading this blog have had the pleasure of meeting Kubhaer during his all too brief time at Brandeis or on one of his sojourns to Singapore; most of you have not. There are many stories I should like to tell you about him (dear Koobz, do you remember lying on the hill in back of East looking at the stars? Do you remember listening to that singer deliver the most amazing version of Summertime either of us had ever heard, in my favorite jazz bar in Singapore?), but for now I’ll content myself with the breaking news that Kubhaer officially came of age as a Hindu recently. Perhaps this experience has endowed him with the wisdom of the sages… closer to the truth, however, is that he’s simply an incredibly clear-sighted, honest person, someone whom I am more than honored to call my friend, and someone whom I dearly wish was a little fewer than nine thousand miles away.

After about thirty seconds of listening to me whisper and gulp my way through an explanation of what a terrible coward I am for giving up on teaching, Kubhaer said, “Wait. That’s not why you quit though, is it? What about the school itself?”

And then, my dears, I said this:

“Yes, that is why I quit. I mean, sure, the school that I thought was going to be so perfect was really messed up in some ways, and sure, there were a lot of things going on (or not going on) that made being a first-year teacher many times harder than it already is, and yes, I was going a little crazy, but it’s still not okay to renege on a commitment. It’s not okay to run away from something just because you’re scared. It’s not okay to give up. In the end, I left because I was miserable and anxious and I was too scared of what a lousy job I was doing in the classroom to do what I should have done, which was to stick it out until June and do my damndest to see if I could perhaps start doing a somewhat less lousy job. I could talk about the problems of my school until I turned blue in the face, but the truth is that I gave up on teaching because I was just too afraid to do the incredibly hard work that it always takes to become better, and I decided to run away from it instead of doing the brave, right, difficult thing and honoring the promise I made to my colleagues, my kids, and myself.”

Which is what I’ve been trying to say, to everyone including myself, for the past three weeks.

And Kubhaer listened. And I could hear him thinking. And in the pause before he spoke, I could taste the words he was about to say. They tasted bitter, as the truth does. They were also a relief, as the truth is.

He said, “Well, if that’s really the reason you quit – and frankly, it sounds like a much more natural and human reason than the one you talked about the last time I called – then I completely agree with you. I think you should have stuck it out. I’m afraid you’re right, my dear. You’ve done something that, by your own standards for living honorably, you can’t respect.

Don’t do it again.

Look, if you do something that you know to be dishonorable, there are two things you can do: You can try to make amends, and you can learn from it and move on. I assume that you’re not going to go back to your old job at that school, so the only thing for you to do right now is accept that you did a cowardly thing, and next time you find yourself in a situation where you feel like you want to run away, ask yourself if what you should really be doing is working harder.

Oh — and don’t forget the most important thing. No matter what you do, whether you’re a thief or a banker or a car salesman or a road sweeper, as long as you’re not hurting anyone, be the best thief or banker or car salesman or whatever that you can be, and that’s all you have to do to be a good human being. Remember that you don’t have to be the best in the world — just be the best that you can be. And don’t let yourself get caught up in regret. Sometimes reflecting on the past is overrated and you’ve got to just figure out what you can do in your future that will be better.”

It’s not as if Kubhaer’s words themselves were a revelation… it’s not as if he said anything to me that I hadn’t already thought, or heard, or read, or written. The difference is that he let me know he heard me when I said I felt ashamed of my actions, he agreed that I had reason to feel ashamed, and then he told me, without in any way trying to ease my shame, what he thought I needed to do about it.

And having heard his words, the only way I could be more ashamed of myself is if I didn’t listen to them.

Thanks, babe. I love you. And I owe you one.

On the wall above the whiteboard in what used to be my girls’ classroom, there hangs a small homemade poster. In red and black Sharpie on green construction paper, it reads (in between a few stray curlicues) “Fear is what prevents the flowering of the mind. — Krishnamurti.” On a Saturday in September, the school building quiet of its usual laughter and recriminations, I climbed a small blue plastic chair to tape up my handiwork. None of my students ever asked about it, and I never pointed to it dramatically in the middle of a lesson. I just left it there, without fanfare or comment, vaguely thinking that its sentiment might enter the bodies of my children through some strange, slow osmosis. I liked to imagine R.’s huge eyes lingering on Krishnamurti’s words during a particularly boring day, mulling over what they meant in her life.

I am telling you these facts now (O my Best Beloved) because I am filled with fear, and I do not wish to be ruled by it any longer.

I have been afraid, for instance, to write this post, in which I tell you that about a month ago I decided to leave that classroom, that school, R.’s eyes. I have been afraid of the leap into the unknown that comes now. I have been afraid that I have broken parts of my life and myself that I’m not sure how to fix.

But I am telling you these facts now because I am filled with fear, and I do not wish to be ruled by it any longer. And this post, whether you know it or not (O my Best Beloved) is my first step.

1) Sarah the Superstar sent me a spectacular package in the mail today. It contained: Six bodacious bookmarks (including an Arthur one), three vanilla scented tealights, a Boxing Bones pen, two packets of ZEN tea, a bottle of sparkly nail polish, two library pencils and a library magnet (Because Sarah-Sura is the sexiest librarian ever), a cake of blue star-shaped soap, and the sweetest card in the world. Plus, there were Edward Gorey and Wind in the Willows stickers on the box. Sarah hon, I can’t even begin to tell you how much I appreciated this. So I’ll just say that I can’t wait for drinks with you when you come and visit Boston, and that when you do come, you’re going to get a hug that cracks your (delicate) ribs — so be sure to wear a thick sweater.

2) Ross’s calm, green-brown eyes when I come home from a rotten day.

3) I got a long, newsy email from Erica this morning which I totally did not deserve, considering the fact that I have been completely negligent about emailing or calling the people who are dearest to me (including Erica). It was just the thing to read while I was injecting coffee into my veins, and was clearly designed to be lovingly distracting. It worked — I felt both loved and distracted. (I also felt a strong desire to watch The West Wing, under a blanket in a living room with a low slanty ceiling.)

4) My dad and his brother are working on writing a history of my grandfather’s life — and this week I got the first installment. I can’t wait to read more — someday, folks, there will be a S*thi family tome you can put on your living room table!

5) My mom just keeps sending me the BEST emails. If anyone out there needs a penpal, I highly recommend my mom.

6) My friends still love me even though I have disappeared from the face of the planet. I do not deserve such good treatment, but I will attempt to make up for it by making some phonecalls this weekend.

7) There are two girls I teach whom I would love to take home with me, and I chatted with one of them for a long time this morning. During the conversation she approved of my hair, which is growing out kind of shaggy. Yes, a 10 year old made me feel better about my hair — I need all the validation I can get at this point! :-)

I’ll stop at lucky seven… I really am blessed.

My heart and brain are too tired from teaching to say much, which makes me sad. However, Ross and I took a trip to New Hampster (tm Molly) today to enjoy the foliage, which makes me happy. Also, I drove for an hour on the highway coming back! It was quite exhilarating, and not very stressful since the roads were generally empty for most of the way. Here are some pictures of the colours we saw today:

Standing in the middle of all that gold and fire and crayon orange, I kept thinking: If only I could take my kids out here every day, I bet they’d be calmer, happier, better human beings.

On the other hand, perhaps they’d just find a way to turn the leaves into projectile weapons of some kind.

… here I come, brand new driver’s license in hand — or rather, in mail! Right now all I have is my temporary paper license, and theoretically the shiny plastic one will arrive in my mailbox in the next three weeks. We shall see. In any case, the portly and somewhat gruff policeman who passed me (somewhat against his better judgement, I think) stamped, signed, and sealed my fate about an hour ago.

The whole thing only took about 10 minutes. It went like this:

1) I back out of my parking space nicely (with a little help from my tester) and drive slowly down a couple of streets, making full and complete stops at all stop-signs. I impress my tester so much in the first 30 seconds of the drive that he asks how much experience I’ve had, and when I say three and a half months he tells me I drive like I’ve been doing it for ten years. (Since I’m me, and completely incapable of accepting praise without over-analysis, at this point I’m obviously thinking “Oh, great. Now when I mess up you’ll be disappointed in me.”)

2) He asks me to parallel park and I manage to do it without too much drama (and with a little more help from him). When I am done, I put the car into park and pull up the brake. “You’re parked on a hill,” he says. “What else should you do?” I have no idea what he is talking about, so I do the only thing I can think of — I straighten the wheel out some.

Talking to Ross later, I realise that this action (undertaken purely by fluke) saved my butt. When you’re parked on a hill, you’re apparently supposed to angle the wheels towards the curb, so that if for some reason your brakes fail you’ll roll into the curb instead of into the car behind you or down the hill. Thank goodness for whatever made me futz with the wheel, because it must have convinced him I knew what he meant.)

3) I nearly bang into the bumper of the car in front of me when I’m pulling out — gah! He pulls up the hand-brake and saves me. At this point I am afraid I will fail.

4) I make a pretty good 3 point turn. Phew!

5) I back up (sort of) straight down the street. I feel very shaky, but I guess I do an ok job.

6) He tells me to drive back to the testing place and stamps me passing! I am convinced he is failing me until I see him write “PASS” on the paper. I want to kiss his feet, but he is a big burly policeman so I refrain.

7) I thank him for my license and his advice, and he tells Ross to “Watch her!” when he gets out of the car. Heh.

8) I fail completely to back up into the right side of the street and have to leave the lot from the opposite lane. The policeman gives me a look and says “That’s why you have to back up onto the right side!” But it’s TOO LATE. I ALREADY HAVE MY LICENSE.

I HAVE MY LICENSE.

I AM ALLOWED TO DRIVE BY MYSELF.

I WILL NO LONGER HAVE TO USE MY PASSPORT AS ID! (Although now that I’m teaching full time I usually dress sharp enough that no one cards me anymore. Maybe I’ve developed that “adult” look.)

There is a lot of other news from The Great Adventure, both good and bad, but the only thing I want to share is this:

My girls (four groups out of five, anyway), put on 2 minute presentations of Greek myths this afternoon, with an audience and everything (I invited another girls’ class to come and watch). They were great. I mean, the acting was pretty awful, and the scripts were kind of minimal, but only two people cried, only one group refused to perform (I bet they regretted it, because the audience was incredibly supportive and whooped everyone loudly), and the girl who played Hades had the Best. Darth Vader voice. Ever.

A heated argument between two of my boys on Wednesday during lunch:

G (impassioned): “It’s a moustache! A moustache!”
T (exasperated): “It’s called facial hair. All women have at least a little hair above their lip, and some women have more. But it’s facial hair, not a moustache.”
G (dancing about the classroom, overwrought): “No, no, it’s a moustache! Have you seen this girl? It’s definitely a moustache.”
T (following, determined): “No, it’s not! It’s called facial hair! Doesn’t your mother have a little hair above her lip?”

I interrupt to call T over so I can shake his hand.

*******

Thursday: I am introducing Writers’ Workshop to my girls’ class, and taking them through a list of “writing domains” — things, people, places, memories, and ideas that I like to write about or might someday want to write about. On the list is a section entitled “Important Milestones.”

I can see all the girls’ gazes shoot straight to where it says “My first kiss.” (Note: In the boy’s class, no one so much as batted an eyelid over this one.)

The class explodes in giggles, whispers, and “ewwwwwwwwwwwww!”s.

“Ladies!” I declare, “We are writers! We write about what is real! How old do you think I am? I’ve had my share of kisses!”

Yesterday morning, during homeroom, I overhear two of them: “I want to hear about her first kiss!” “Me, too!”

*******

Last week, when I was spending a lot more time doing damage control with my boys and had a bunch more time in my girls’ class because they settle down so much more quickly, I started reading Coraline aloud to the girls. Now I seem to have gotten them addicted, and one or two of them have gone and bought the book (yay!). Everyone always wants me to read it, but unfortunately it’s not my plan to spend half an hour every day reading aloud.

K (cute as a button, teacher’s pet in training if ever there was one): “Ms. S*thi, are you going to read Coraline tomorrow?”
Me (dead seriously): “Only if you’re PERFECT.”

K’s jaw drops and her eyes open so wide it’s all I can do not to laugh.

*******

Thank god for these kids — they make this whole teaching thing (which is otherwise completely impossible) bearable.