I'd love to be the compassionate teacher;
the tough, but fair teacher.
But to my brilliant young minds,
these scholars for whom I'd stand up at all costs,
I'm the sweaty teacher.
Not the compassionate teacher who,
hey, by the way, happens to sweat,
or even the teacher who sweats.
No. The sweaty teacher.
Adjective, sweaty
purposefully coming before noun, teacher,
as if to say, "This is Mr. Lamb.
Do not define him by the profession he devotes his life to.
Define him by the geysers he calls armpits."
Every morning, I wake up in a cold...
nevermind.
The easy-going teacher says,
"I shouldn't sweat it."
The loud teacher says,
"YEAH YOU SHOULDN'T SWEAT IT!"
But even the empathetic teacher doesn't understand.
I've got funny teacher potential.
I used to pretend the notes I confiscated in class
were thank you letters.
Acknowledgements of my great teaching.
"Oh ho ho, you shouldn't have!"
Until I intercepted one about a Mr. Stank Pits.
No, really. You shouldn't have.
Ever since I've started developing quirky habits
to deflect attention,
to become someone new:
the teacher who shrugs his shoulders
really aggressively.
The teacher who tucks his tie into his pants
and pulls the end out his fly
because he's so wacky.
But it's no use.
Because I had the sweaty teacher, too, for geography.
And to this day I cannot remember the capital of Bulgaria,
and the two bodies of water I know the most about
sat below his shoulders.
And now, I'm the one
looking like I've got the Atlantic and Pacific
in headlocks.
The one being asked, "How was the dunk tank?"
"There was no dunk tank!
We live in New Orleans and it is humid!"
is how I'd respond if I was the angry teacher.
Instead, I look the kid in the eye
as the sweat cascades down my nose,
and splatters onto his blank paper below,
and I say, "I sweat because I am working my tail off
and I need you to do the same."