I know I'm not the only person who leads a double life.
Given the vastness of the planet, of the universe, of history, of literature, of culture, what hubris it would be to pretend I am unique. This fear of the mundane stops me from writing more than any other of my many anxieties. The cold fingers of cliché wrap tightly around my stomach as I stare at the blinking cursor. My brain lies stagnant in an endless pool of tired images, plucking one after another out of the mucky water: a budding rose, a cat stretching in the sun, a boy becoming a man on the battlefield as he learns to shoot a gun. Each day is another pitter-patter rainstorm of middle class clichés, starting with the smell of coffee and ending between cool sheets in the wee hours of the morning.
Yet I am still moved by the miracle of sentient life and the beauty of shared human existence. How's that for a truism?
So when I say I lead a double life, I don't mean to suggest that you don't. In fact, I'm sure you do.
I don't hide my age when I teach, exactly. I suggest, via a series of half-told truths, that I am older: I speak of starting college in 2003. I mention my Master's degree, students I had two years ago, and voting in the 2008 election (the first time I could vote, of course, but I don't mention that). I dress deliberately in "professional" clothing that was trendy a decade ago, and I wear slightly heavier makeup than I need to suggest that I'm covering signs of aging that aren't there. I avoid bringing up specific ages and instead speak of generations, of "middle-aged" authors and "young people." I rarely speak about myself and my experiences anyway, so my exact age is almost never relevant. I know, though, that with only a Google search, any student could figure it out. It's on my website. If anyone asks, I've told myself, I will not lie. I am ready at all times to have a frank discussion of my youth and educational history. I've rehearsed the encounter in my head repeatedly, staring at the popcorn ceiling in the semi-darkness as I try to fall asleep, listening to the dishwasher gurgling downstairs.
In my first year teaching, I waited apprehensively for the question to be asked. "I'm 19," I planned I'd say, matter-of-factly, with a single, serious nod of my head. I imagined the surprised murmur of the class, the incredulous looks on my students' faces, and the awkward laughter of the few who would realize they were older than me. "Yeah, I started college when I was really young," I'd explain. But no matter how many times I ran through the scenario in my head, I couldn't imagine what would happen after that. Would they revolt? Would they ask me questions? Would they be content to leave it at that and move back into class material immediately? Would I be able to maintain my authority in the classroom--would they still respect me? When I finished my first year without anyone asking my age, mostly I was relieved. I passed! I did it! They didn't realize! One small part of me, however, was disappointed: never again will teaching college freshmen be so special.
Now, at 21, I am as tired of pretending as I am unsure how to stop. I want to be candid and honest with my students. Why shouldn't they know that I go home, put on shorts and a t-shirt, and play Mario Galaxy in a room filled with lava lamps? Why shouldn't I dye my hair bright colors and go to my office hours in a sundress and dance unselfconsciously at bars downtown? What is the purpose of professionalism and propriety, when I will only be in this job for four more weeks, and I'm not sure how much good my acting does my students anyway? Don't older educators work hard to cultivate an aura of friendly relatability and pop culture relevancy? Mightn't I make more of an impact on them if I was my "true" young and casual self? But this late in the game, how do I do that?
A student who came into my office yesterday wanted to know the difference between an A, a B, and a C. Before I explained the basics of my mental rubric, I went for candid and honest: "I recognize that there's a lot of subjectivity in grading in English. I know that it's hard to understand sometimes, as a student, why a paper you didn't work very hard on gets an A and another that you slaved over for weeks barely passes. I don't pretend to be beyond all subjectivity."
After a few minutes of explaining how I grade (a C paper meets the most basic requirements, but does so without being terribly interesting, engaging, well organized, or rhetorically powerful; an A paper is a pleasure to read), I asked if he understood and if my explanation helped at all. He furrowed his eyebrows and, glancing down at the grey linoleum, said, "Kind of." He was hoping for an easy answer, he said, or for a trick or formula or rule that he could follow to be sure to get an A on every paper.
Success just isn't that simple. Life isn't either.
Thus I return again to the same clichés. And sitting here on my mundane couch, I take another sip of my mundane coffee.
