At some point during this whole oh-hi-let’s-overshare-our-deepest-darkest-most-unholy-secrets-with-complete-strangers-for-fun gig, we’ve all got to face the fact that there are just some things that are better left unsaid. As the queen of too much information, I’ve been bumping up against this invisible wall since the first time I ever heard the dulcet tones of a dial up modem.
Believe me, it’s not easy.
But I have to reign myself in. There are things I won’t write about. Things I can’t write about–especially in light of my career choice. While I’m still in school, I can hide behind the relative anonymity of this blog without fear of losing my position. No one can fire me from being a mom, after all. The minute I leave the cushy, protective womb of college life and push my melon head into the real world, I’m pretty much screwed.
Teachers have the potential to tremendously impact their students’ lives. Whether we like it or not, our kids look up to us. Or hate us on principle. At least that’s the mantra we hear every day of the four to six years we spend in college figuring out how to coerce your child’s brain into learning.
Basically, we have no choice but to try to be as positive a role model as possible. No teacher wants to remember how that kid–the one who wrote an essay about how he ‘accidentally’ killed his pet chihuahua by locking it in a mailbox for three days–overheard Mrs. Busybody telling Coach GymShorts about how you, Mrs. BestEducatorEver, had a major boner for the guy who plays Dexter. Especially not when she sees his mugshot on the five o’clock news for dismembering 36 prostitutes.
We have to pretend we’re not real people with real desires and basic human needs. I vividly remember being eight years old and freaked out because I saw my third grade teacher at Walmart buying toilet paper. Oh, golly! Teachers have to poop? Ew.
Yes, Virginia. We have gastrointestinal systems, and occasionally we have to drop the Browns off at the Superbowl just like you. (PS, while you’re this worried about how your teeny little reality is collapsing in around you, you need to ask your parents about the veracity of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. That shit will blow your mind.)
Teachers are getting fired for calling their students stuck up . We all know Facebook can suck the soul out of your noggin through your webcam’s evil eye. Even the strictest privacy settings can’t protect us from every crazy ex, disgruntled student, or nosy parent out there. It gets even worse when you consider that your colleagues are the ones ratting you out.
To be completely safe, we have to hermetically seal ourselves in our homes, avoiding the temptation of internetland and any breath of controversy. We strive to avoid all the drama that naturally accompanies crowding thirty hormone riddled bodies into 20X20 cement prison cells classrooms for eight hours a day. Getting caught up in that whirlwind of crap will follow you around for the rest of your godforsaken life.
After all, we never know who will see a completely innocuous picture of us having a glass of wine with friends and turn it into a scandal that would make Rod Blagojevich blush. That’s no kind of behavior for a teacher, a torch-bearing mob will scream at our administrators. Let’s strip her naked, cover her in honey, and put on top of an anthill in town square. That’ll teach that brazen hussy to imbibe that devil juice! Some are going as far as to call this treatment of private citizens with jobs in the public spotlight the new temperance movement.
I call it bullshit.
I can’t quit Facebook–I’ve got too many relatives spread across this great nation want to see photos of Boo. And I’m not giving up this site. However, I don’t want my mom’s (Hi, Mom!) ‘told ya so’ dire warnings about my blog being the downfall of my career to ring in my ears the day I start teaching. I don’t want to called before the school board to address my, ahem, statements of a personal nature. So I will try to avoid writing about certain issues.
Religion, politics, and educational issues are big ones, obviously. While I have very strong feelings about all three, I won’t go into detail about any of them without just cause (read: unless someone REALLY pisses me off.) I don’t know enough about the first two to even count my opinion as an educated one, so it’s probably beneficial for me to keep my yap shut.
I should probably consider eliminating all references to drinking hard liquor, mind-numbing hangovers, and subsequent mornings spent praying to the procelain gods. (But first let me put down my delicious mixed drink.)
I should probably think up aliases for me and the rest of my family. I kind of already blew it on that one, though. I’m not about to start referring to Boo*** by some cutesy nickname like Bunny Foo Foo. Come on, America, that shit is sacred. I’m the only one who gets to call him Booger Butt.
I should probably start using less inflammatory language. A few less ‘fucks’ in every post would not kill me, but geez, sometimes there’s just no other good adjective available. Trust me. Google doesn’t spit out a six page list of synonyms for the almighty F word.
If you know me personally, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave details like my hometown, blood type, and financial records to yourself. I don’t need hordes of paparazzi waiting for me when I take the trash out, and I’d really like to avoid acquiring a stalker. Ya know, since I’m already famous.
Who am I kidding. No one reads this. Hello? Is anyone out there? *whimper* I can has comments, plz?
***Obviously, I fail at life.