Eating me alive

When I was in college, my boyfriend told me I would be a terrible teacher.

He said I would never be comfortable standing in front of a room full of teenagers.

He said they would eat me alive.

In fairness, I was nineteen when I started substitute teaching, so this was not an unreasonable prediction. I was barely older than some of my students and looked even younger despite my professional attire.

What I did have, though, was an unexpected survival strategy: storytelling.

Teenagers will tolerate a lot if you are entertaining.

They will tolerate even more if you are slightly unhinged but consistent.

In my first regular year of teaching, I made what I thought was a clearly impossible statement: if anyone managed to bring Enrique Iglesias into my classroom, I would personally pay for their college tuition.

I assumed this would be understood as a joke.

I assumed incorrectly.

My students spent the next two weeks trying to figure out how to make this happen. They researched tour schedules. They discussed logistics. They formed what I can only describe as a loose task force. I began to understand that I had accidentally created a scholarship program tied entirely to later 1990's Latin pop.

Around the same time, I told a student I had met Princess Diana and had photographic proof, but the pictures were with another teacher. That teacher, in an impressive show of professional solidarity, told the student she had passed the photos along to someone else. The story continued circulating through the building before the photos mysteriously returned to me on April 1, at which point I revealed that the entire thing had been a joke.

To be clear, I was not trying to deceive anyone for personal gain. I was simply discovering, in real time, that teenagers will believe almost anything if you deliver it with enough confidence and a straight face.

I also told stories in German about my life: my host mother in Germany who ironed my underwear for reasons I still cannot explain, the time I was scolded in Salzburg for misidentifying a mountain goat, my deep and enduring love of walruses and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. My students knew far too much about me. They knew my snack preferences, my travel mishaps, and my extended family’s questionable decision-making.

And yet, somehow, they did not eat me alive.

They showed up. They listened. They learned German. They attempted to secure Enrique Iglesias for educational purposes. They patiently waited for photographic evidence of my royal connections.

It turns out I was never in danger of being eaten alive.

If anything, I slightly overfed them with stories.

Nowadays, my friends are the ones waiting for my stories. Work drama. Dating drama. Dumb moments when I put my foot in my mouth. The time I confused a conservative Christian hiking group with the lesbian hiking group I had just joined. Who knew?

I no longer have my own classroom, but I am still telling stories and trying to captivate audiences. These days I talk about meeting The Rock, climbing a tree in Slovakia, or being on national news. And while I once offered to pay college tuition for anyone who could bring Enrique Iglesias into my classroom, I have matured.

At this point, if someone brought me Queen Latifah, we could talk.

Times change.