This week one of my professional development students voiced something that got a collective sigh from the entire class. This student, I'll call her Tiralina, is a tall, slender, blonde stick of energy with braces and a habit of speaking whatever is on her mind. She's not belligerent; she just seems to have few boundaries when it comes to expressing herself. She's honest and direct, and I love her for it.
“I'm excited to finish school,” she said. “But I'm also scared!”
“Yeah, what's that all about, do you think?” I asked.
The professional development class is the one where students prepare their resumes and cover letters and practice their interviewing skills in preparation for graduation. Most of these students are in the Medical Assisting diploma program, a nine-month learning blitz, and in another month they will be scouring the city for an externship position to complete their education.
“We have to leave the school bubble,” said Tiralina, “and I don't want to, but I do. But I don't.”
“Does anyone else feel that way?” I asked.
Everyone nodded and sighed. She had struck a collective nerve. As they shared their fear and excitement, I couldn't help wondering if I was also in the same boat: stuck in the school bubble, afraid to launch myself to the next level.
Today at work in Wilsonville, I sat in the restroom, psyching myself up for my four-hour Access and Excel teaching gig by stretching my face into a fake grin and saying over and over silently, “Everything is grrrreeaaattt!” I was aiming for a Tony the Tiger impression, failing, but not totally miserably, because they say even if you fake a smile, it produces endorphins. It worked, I think, for most of the four hours, until the point when the insane student who is addicted to tanning asked me to help her figure out how people on the Internet were tracking her in order to steal her identity.
What I wanted to say was, you knucklehead, you are such a loser, anyone who wants your identity would be doing you a huge favor. Imagine, you could start over and get it right this time! Of course, I didn't say that. I politely steered her toward the IT department. At that point it was time to go, and the more minutes tick by, the thicker the traffic going home, so I was itching to exit. I bailed with a “Good luck!” tossed over my shoulder. I always leave on Thursday afternoon with a feeling of profound relief, like I've just been released from prison. I also despair, because I know in a few days, I'll have to go back and do it all again.
So I walked the park trails and pondered my progress, and oddly enough, after I walked, I didn't feel quite so morose. Even though the sun sets sooner now, even though the night air is cold and it's time to pull out the flannel sheets, even though the stores are full of back-to-school and the dreaded holiday season is rushing at me, it's still better than lying dead in some alley in Aleppo. Is this all I have to complain about, my little existential angst tantrum? Really? Hey, you want my identity? It's a fixer-upper in a bad neighborhood, but it could be worse.
