By NICE BUENAVENTURA

In case True Blood has not reached where you live (under a rock), teacup human means small human or child. In season one, it was said that children’s blood tastes best, followed by virgins’. I doubt that. If children’s blood had a taste, it would be like sparkling water to the fizz intolerant – deceptively sweet, but biting to the throat.

A vampire sheriff bidding two teacup humans farewell

This is why, if you simply want to try it out, I do not recommend teaching.

Teaching the lower grades requires a lot more than the desire to try new things. Do not be glamoured by the short working hours, or the days off when classes are suspended. You will soon find out that while you are a teacher virtually at all times, executives are executives only five days a week (okay, six on particularly busy weeks).

Apart from the task of teaching, there is the lesson plan that has to be written with painstaking detail, and submitted to the subject coordinator who is unhappilyunmarried (and thinks this is your fault), for approval. On your days off you will find yourself at home revising lesson plans that have more red marks than black.

That is, if you’re not checking papers.

I was 22 when I taught at a private elementary school. My students were tweens while my co-teachers were old enough to be my parents. Could I be blamed for spending more time in my parked car than anywhere else in the school? No. Not really.

For propriety’s sake, I held back whenever students showed signs of wanting to hang out. Although I cannot recall a single class wherein I did not have to raise my voice, I had a few students who were genuinely likable. Lovable, even. I would sometimes catch myself in the company of these kids, talking like we were all classmates, except I was in a different uniform.

A handful of kids will make your days walk, if not fly.

I especially enjoyed talking with Diego. Diego fits the bill of a weirdo quite perfectly. He talked about crazy things like fishing in the creek, with flour baits he cooked himself, or building a lie detector with his secret configuration of transistors. He was the smartest kid I knew.

He was also the most artistic. I have his ink blots on crumpled paper hanging on my wall.

With the other, less peculiar kids, sharing often meant revealing who your crush is, even if they don’t know him. Or who their crushes are, even if you’ve known from the start. Your place by the blackboard helps you figure these things out.

Or helluva funny videos that show up in your news feed.

If that didn’t reek of raging hormones, I don’t know what will.

Maybe this.

The boys had one kick too many out of this botched up paint job.

At other times, when I remembered to be proper with the kids, I took to my car. I did not feel the need to form relationships with my colleagues, thus my inability to supply two cents on where the best place for sex is in the office. There wasn’t even a place for smoking.

Soon enough, you will take it upon yourself to quit smoking. If your students, or worse, their parents, see you with a lit stick between your lips, shame on you.

I also remember having to wear long pants to the mall because “shorts are indecent.”I wasn’t kidding about being a teacher everyday of the week.

The English Department met formally every week or so, to discuss official matters when grievances weren’t in the way. But they often were. During these dreaded meetings I bit my tongue for an hour, or how ever long it took for the coordinator to burst into tears. Yes, teachers could be bullies, too.

The scenario in the faculty pantry was much more civilized. Maybe we were just hungry at departmental meetings. And it didn’t help that our coordinator looked like a fry.

Over hurried lunch or some other too-quick break, I may have opened up a little to a couple of my colleagues. I’m pretty sure there wasn’t a bad bone in their bodies. They were fun and interesting – the makings of a pal, but I never felt like going beyond the acquaintance.

I could only imagine the things that were said about me; cold shoulders and rolling eyes spoke louder than words. Could they be blamed? No. Not really. I was a bit of a Diego, if you know what I mean.I ate in the car, wore strange looking shoes that were advertised as sandals, and sported a boy’s haircut.

I like to think that my students saw me differently. I know Tristan and Liam did. I remember parts of a conversation I had with these boys. I had just timed out at the nearest bundy clock to my parking while they idly waited for their bus several feet away. They caught up with me in the parking lot. I can’t be sure what Tristan said, probably something about the PETA stickers that protected my biometric card from scratches, or how my hair was getting shorter and shorter, and lighter and lighter. I do remember, though, that Liam asked me why their other teachers were not like me. I asked him what he meant by “like me,” and both of them answered, “Cool.” I can be sure I blushed.

During my last few weeks at work, my desk disappeared under letters and gifts. If I could only scan a few to attach to this essay, you would’ve seen how my kids knew the difference between its and it’s, and your and you’re. Well, at least most of them.

One section gave me their pet stuffed tiger as a souvenir. I was deeply touched, because I knew this tiger meant a lot to the kids. It was like their mascot: it represented them. This was also the section that ate me alive.

A few years later, I would still bump into my students at the mall, and even with the bad apples, only pleasant words were exchanged.

Sometimes they would come up to me and ask me for their names, like a pop quiz. I would fail, of course. It cannot be helped.

I may have forgotten their names, but I will keep the times they made my life easier, albeit outnumbered by the times they made it extra hard.

Written in my poor version of the school-prescribed Palmer script

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Nice is a contributor to New Slang. When she’s not taking care of her Grac, she makes art and writes for various magazines. She was last seen here with the piece entitled, “For Anyone Who Thinks Having a Baby is the Best Thing Ever.” Her work can be found here.