When I was in seventh grade my health teacher, Mr. Phillips, told me I would make a good teacher because I was so patient.
I immediately declared that I would never be a teacher in the kind of bratty voice that comes with being nearly thirteen years old and not particularly fond of Mr. Phillips.
This brattyness, I believe, was not entirely unwarranted. How much kindness can a middle school student be expected to show to a teacher who tries to cultivate some cred with the class by mocking the then-current ad campaign for Alien by saying, “In space, no one can hear you pass gas”? I mean, come on. If you plan on teaching a bunch of twelve-year-olds you should at least be aware that they will laugh at the word “fart” but will find “pass gas” squirm-inducingly square.
Nonetheless, ever since then (a shocking thirty years) I have considered myself a Patient Person.
It has been only recently — most often when I hear myself telling Lily to Stop Yelling At Me! — that I have thought maybe it’s time to reassess.
