Look, nobody tells you that teaching high school English is 5% literary analysis, 15% strategically timing bathroom breaks, 30% lesson planning, and 50% convincing teenagers that a book written 200 years ago is actually relevant to their lives. “But Miss Thompson, why do we have to read about some old guy’s feelings?” Because, Javi, those feelings are universal—and also, it’s on the test.
I came into this semester with big dreams. I had a color-coded binder. I had annotated copies of every novel I planned to teach. I had a Pinterest board called “Cute Classroom Ideas” that I will never financially recover from. What I did not have was a realistic understanding of how long it takes 25 teenagers to open up their Chromebooks and log into Google Drive. The answer is seven minutes. Every. Single. Day.
But here’s the thing—and I promise I’m not just saying this because my mom reads this blog—I genuinely love it? There’s this moment when a kid who has been checked out all semester suddenly gets angry about a character’s choices, and wonders why the author would ever do that to them because it makes no sense based on their past characterization and seems like it’s more about the author making a point than the character doing what they would actually do. And that’s when you realize: oh, they were paying attention. They care.
Last week, a student told me that Gatsby had rizz but was “down bad and kind of problematic” and honestly? Literary criticism has peaked. We can all go home.
The hardest part hasn’t been the grading (though my weekends would like a word). It’s been learning when to push and when to give grace—to my students and to myself. Some days, I nail the lesson and feel like I was born to do this. Other days, I mispronounce an author’s name in front of 30 kids and have to just… live with that. Apparently it’s “CAM-oo,” not “Ca-MOO.” The more you know. Thanks Leighton, your insights about existentialist authors are almost as bold as your eyeliner and black nail polish. 
If you’re a new teacher reading this, or thinking about becoming one: it’s hard. Really hard. But also? A kid brought me a coffee last week because I “seemed tired.” I almost cried in front of third period. So yeah—I’m coming back next semester. Wish me luck.
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