Amaya raises her hand during a particular dull moment of my lecture.
“Yes, Amaya?” I cringe at the sound of my voice. Even I sound bored.
“Can you repeat what you just said?” she asks impatiently.
I blink. I don’t even know what I just said. I look back into my teacher guide. “Uh…” I drag my finger across the lines of text. “Oh. Here. Remind children that when authors write—no wait, sorry. When authors write, they usually write for a specific reason. Knowing the author’s purpose for writing can help them… can helpyouunderstand more about what you’re reading.”
Amaya’s eyes scan the workbook in front of her. “And there are only three reasons why authors write? To persuade, to inform, and to entertain?”
“No, there are definitely more reasons than that,” I tell her. “What are some other reasons an author may want to—” I start to ask the class. “Actually, never mind. I can’t go off script. Just think about those three for now, Amaya.”
“But how about poetry?” Kyle calls out. “I don’t think poets write to do any of those things.”
“I—”want to claw my eyes out.
Emmanuel takes that moment to storm into my room. “Good morning, Class 301.”
“Good morning, Mr. Jean-Baptiste,” my emotionless robot children chime.
He waves an anchor chart around. “I just wanted to come in here and share something with you. We were just doing the same lesson, and my students had a really great conversation. We came up with an entire list of reasons of why authors write. With examples. We’re still teaching thethree in the book,” Emmanuel tells me pointedly, “so I think it’s safe to add our own.”
“I think poets write to share their feelings,” Kyle calls out.
Emmanuel claps his hands. “Go off, sis,” he tells him. “My students came up with that one, too.”
“Okay,” I breathe. “Let’s do that for today,” I tell everyone.But this still isn’t sustainable.
THIRTY-TWO
Elias
“Wow, man,”NBA player Jordan O’Neal says to my eye.
“Yeah,” I say, scratching the back of my head.
“She? He? They?”
“She,” I’ve been finally admitting to everyone, including myself. “And her brother.”
“Damn,” he says, with considerably less feeling than all the feelings I am feeling.
We move into stretches. Today is an active recovery day, which means low intensity exercises.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you—” I start.
He raises an eyebrow.
“What made you recommend me to your teammates?”
He looks at me, seemingly confused by the question.
“I mean, I’m nothing but grateful. I was able to quit my full time teaching job so that I could do this full time instead. But I’ve wondered.”
He thinks for a moment, stretching his seven-mile-long legs. “You weren’t some disorganized meathead, which I’ve seen a lot of in your field. You’re professional. Seems like you have your shit together. And what really took it over the top was when you digitized everything. And made social media and stuff. It was easier for me to tell my buddies. Or show them that you were legit.”
I digest this.You’re, like, annoyingly competent at existing. Your gym is already legit, Elias.
“I didn’t even know you were a teacher. You mean you were doing this as a side hustle?”
