9.23.24 vignettes on liminality
to prove to my students that it's really not that bad
on a field trip to downtown boston, one of my students asks me how old i am. by no means is my age required to be confidential, but i don’t really like the idea of my students knowing. that, and i like being cool and mysterious for once in my overdisclosing life.
of course, as eighth graders do, she begins to guess. 24? 25? i shrug ambiguously every time. she goes lower. 18?
i can’t help but laugh. my colleagues were right when they said kids have no concept of age.
31?
strangely, i’m okay with her thinking this. maybe, i say.
well, ms. ryu, for the record, you look like you could be in your twenties.
thank you. that means a lot.
in class, we analyze the poem “changes” from brown girl dreaming, a book i’d read for a humanities curricular design class in college—coincidentally enough—and now am getting to teach almost three years later. my mentor tells me to focus on the themes of anticipation and liminality in the poem.
and focus i do. before i can stop myself, the words are spilling out. and in a way, isn’t this like middle school? i grimace internally. i can hear eyes rolling like marbles in a bag. we’re in the process of figuring out who we are, aren’t we?
i like we because it invites. i overuse we, but we felt right today.
i have kids calling me “mrs.” and believing i’m 31, and i feel like an infant around adults. before back to school night, the teacher i co-advise with asks me how i’m feeling. like i’m about to burst into tears. when i’m with my students, i have all the confidence of a real teacher. but still i’m convinced it won’t take two looks for a parent to figure out that i’m a naive, [redacted]-year-old fraud who got this job because someone in upper admin had an aneurysm and no one bothered to rectify this egregious error. and then all of a sudden i’m back in ninth grade and can she even speak english, and wow it’s so brave of you to take an honors english class, and if you need any help my son can tutor you. so i walk myself to the bathroom and i calm myself down because that is what you do when you’re grown.
i want to be lucid and poised and established and assured. i want to expedite the process, cut to the chase. i want my students to smile at me when they see me around, and i also don’t want to care so much that they do. i want them to say i have english next! i want to cut it up in the faculty lounge and share stories about teaching my son to drive. i want to be relied on. i want to be older! i want to know what’s going on. i want to wake up one day and know everything i need to know.
but how wonderful it is to have a new goal! how wonderful it is to wake up every day and see a new horizon! how wonderful it is to know that the me of the distant future is one i cannot wait to embody! and how wonderful it is to become her more and more every day!
on back to school night, one of my student’s parents tells me that my class is a frequent topic of conversation at their dinner table. he really enjoys your class, she says. while i remind myself that being liked is not the singular marker of a good teacher, her comment envelops my body like a warm blanket.
in class, we discuss the starburst identity chart: a circle with arrows pointing outwards and inwards—out to represent one’s self-perception, and in to represent how others may perceive them. i use ms. ryu as an example.
i write “military kid” at the end of an outward arrow. because while you might not have known that about me, it informs how i see myself.
i ask them for inward arrow examples—how they see me, expecting “english teacher,” “adult,” and other things of that nature.
kind, they tell me. understanding.
at first i laugh. that is not how i see myself at all. is it conceited of me to accept that? but isn’t that who i am trying to be for my students? how did i manage to pull this off so early? still, as undeserved as they are, moments like these remind me i’m on my way.
nowadays, i spend every moment thinking about teaching. i dream about activities i can do in class. i can’t talk about anything else. i am totally, utterly consumed by this job. and i cannot imagine a life i would trade for this one.
but like anything in excess, i know this is not sustainable. the few moments i get with people outside of work are grounding and rejuvenating in ways i don’t realize i need when i’m in the enclosure that is the space between hobart and central.
and perhaps in the distant future, i will figure this out too. but how wonderful it is to exist right now.
/ / /
to my students, may you never find this. but if you do, may this help you write your own vignette next week.
Your writing is so beautiful, made my day to read your post <3 rooting for you always!!!
so very wonderful.