In grad school, I was lucky enough to have been one of tenstudents in the program selected for Georgie’s spring seminar, Reading andWriting as Empowerment. I took that opportunity to become Georgie’s star pupil.I made sure that my research mirrored hers, that I quoted the right sociopoliticaleducational theorists at least three times in every essay, and that I read andreread the assigned texts so that I could recite important passages duringclass.
When Georgie said that children were stifled by testscorrected in red pen, I threw out my red pens. When she said that teststhemselves were counterproductive to the real work of teaching literacy, Istopped giving children tests. When she said, a year later, that tests were theonly logical measurement for reading comprehension, I brought back the tests.
I even started to sound like her during writingconferences, telling my students that their ideas were “so big,” and that theirwriting “could change the world.”
I had become a Georgie puppet. I wasn’t sure the packagewas authentically “me,” but it sounded really good, and made me seem reallytogether, and for a while, that was more than good enough.
Because, having that letter of recommendation from thecountry’s leading educational activist helped me land any job I wanted. And, atthe time, there was nothing that I wanted more than to teach in prestigiousHadley, New York.
It took me quite a while to detox from all that Georgie-speak.To this day, fifteen years later, I still find myself using only green pens tograde tests. I use pencils to write on essays, believing that this will showstudents that, while their words are permanent, mine are erasable, mere suggestionsmeant only to help push their thoughts further.
If there’s one person who can get me out of myrun-fast-from-my-middle-school funk, it’s Georgie. Hell, I’d even bet that shecan inspire me on a personal level. If Georgie told me to have sex with my husbandevery night for the next two years, I would do it. Well, I’d seriously considerit, at any rate.
I wait for her to finish talking to some adoring fansbefore approaching the front of the room. She spots me and smiles, breakingaway from the group.
“Lauren! So good to see you!” We hug and I get swallowedby her ample bosom. Georgie’s just big in every way. “I was delighted when Igot your text last night.” She steps back to study me. “You look younger.”
“I do?” I don’t know if this is a good thing or not. Myhand flies up to touch my forehead gingerly, unwittingly drawing attentionthere. I snap my arm back down to my side. It’s the first time that anyone’snoticed the Botox and I’m not sure how to react.
“Mm,” she says, cocking an eyebrow knowingly. “I like it.”
I relax. Having Georgie’s approval still means somethingto me, even if it’s unrelated to the field of education. I am a bit surprised,though, since I would have assumed surface changes were not her style.
She stops to speak to a few more students before we leavethe lecture hall, then leads the way to her office, a gorgeous, loft-likeexpanse with casement windows, open to let the breeze in, overlooking the quad.On the way, we chat about life—hers, at any rate—her research, her travelplans, her life’s goals being checked off the master list one by one.
“And you?” Georgie asks, once we’ve settled in to somechairs around a circular table in her office, each with a steaming cup ofcoffee in hand.
“And me.” I say, considering the multiple-choice answers Icould pick from. I go with A: Home Life. “I have two demanding, draining,life-sucking—although wonderful, the best ever, wouldn’t trade them foranything!—school-age children. They’ve grown so fast, and sometimes I feel likeI don’t matter in their lives anymore, except as a chauffeur. And my husband isnever really home until after I’ve put the children to bed, so I feel…lonely. SometimesI feel like screaming for no reason,” I say, feeling like screaming. Theconcerned look in Georgie’s eyes is penetrating.
I don’t want to lose my shit in front of her, so I switchfocus. “However, I’m still teaching middle school in Hadley. And loving it, ofcourse,” I add as an afterthought. “You know me, I’ll never tire of thosesweaty, fidgety, ADHD middle schoolers!” Okay, maybe that went a bit too far.
She nods thoughtfully. “What about your interest inleadership?” she asks.
“Oh yeah, that,” I say, wishing I had just stuck to themiseries of home life. I then have to explain to my idol how I was recentlypassed over for the chair position in the English Department for an outsiderwith nepotism on her side. “Despite my fine pedigree, exemplary teaching, andgood rapport with parents,” I add, with only a hint of sarcasm to my voice.“Despite the fact that I did everything right.” I feel my eyes sting again andI fight back tears. Georgie doesn’t do tears.
“It is something you still care about,” she states ratherthan asks.
“I don’t know what I still care about?” It comes out as aquestion. Maybe Georgie will answer it for me. That would be nice. She can justtell me what to do so that I can find my way back on course and do it. That’swhat I liked so much about high school, and college, and grad school, too, cometo think of it. There was structure. I took courses and was handed assignments.Teachers just told me where to be and what to do. And as long as I followed thegeneral rules and did my homework, I could coast through.
Maybe I picked teaching as a career because school was theonly world I really knew. And maybe—it occurs to me fifteen-plus years too late—thatkind of default thinking is lame and lazy.
“Hmm.” She actually cocks her head to study me, as if I amsome type of rare or exotic bird she’s never seen up close before. As if Imight become something for her to research. She picks up a pen and beginsjotting some notes on a pad. “And, so, what brings you here today?”
I think about the excuses I came
