I committed the cardinal sin of teaching today: I let ‘em see me cry. Or, at least, tear up.

It’s not quite the drama it sounds like–I really was just rattled anyway and they were just surprisingly extra hateful, and my voice started wavering and I knew it was time to dismiss them to lunch. Only about three of them were left to see the actual tears spill. That sucked. I’d made it almost five years in front of a classroom without crying.

Oh yes, I’ve cried as soon as the last kid stepped out the door. I’ve cried in the privacy of my home, telling Dorian all about how mean they are. I’ve called my mama and sobbed for her to pray for me a new job. I even broke down in front of an assistant principal that time in The Wasteland. But my ONE resolution, regardless of whatever temper tantrum I might throw, borderline-cuss-word I might say, or object I might throw in anger, was never let them see me cry.

I actually ended up feeling a lot better, and we had a very cordial class after they came back from lunch. It chaps my hide (is that the correct expression? I think it’s kinda funny, but I’m not sure) to think that they think they got to me, though. That from here on out, all they have to do is be hateful and Miss Holly will cry and send us to lunch. Rawr.

I guess that will sort itself out. Maybe, since I tend toward the sarcastic, they realized I was human and they should stop being such meanie-moes. Not likely, but I’m going to move forward with that assumption.

Anyway, that was a long introduction to tell you a short true story from my senior year of high school. One of my favorite teachers, and certainly the most inspiring, was Ms. D. She was my junior and senior English teacher, and I have credited her (and later blamed her) as one of the major reasons for my majoring in English myself. I didn’t even like her that much when I first was in her class–I thought if you loved literature, you acted like Robin Williams in Dead Poets’ Society.

Ms. D was the opposite. A small lady my mom’s age (her son was in my class, actually), Ms. D was soft-spoken with a gentle face. I remember her pursing her lips and furrowing her brow as some punk kid (most of the time, me) lobbed some half-baked literary theory toward her and she had to catch it and shape it into something not embarrassing. It took me several months–possibly even an entire school year–to realize that, despite her apparent lack of passion, she loved literature. She loved, deeply, her students and the opportunity to expand their minds even a little bit. To this day, I wish I had the sincere appreciation of beauty of all kinds that she would share through a quiet word and a quiet smile.

Teenagers are jerks. It’s a matter of degree. I was a jerk. I had all these “dreams,” and I HATED where I lived, and I was going to go actually BE something. (That something would NOT involve teaching or living in Nashville, because that’s where everyone moved after graduation. Unless they stayed in the exact same town, of course.) I would smile and be all lovingly-hippyfied, but I did a lot of eye-rolling, I recall. By my senior year, I was over it–my passive aggression was in full force, though I didn’t know what that was at the time, and if you doubted me in any way, you just didn’t “get it.”

I wasn’t quite at the jerk level of a couple of guys in our honors senior English class. They weren’t even cute, but they were pretty sure they were. One was a self-appointed class clown, only he wasn’t funny. Just annoying. The other was a Serious Musician who’d caused approximately twelve pregnancy scares among my classmates throughout high school. Also thought he was funny. Also annoying.

(Looking back, they were just kids. We all were. Funny how I revert to that exact same mindset when thinking of them now, though.)

Ms. D would perch on a stool in the front of the class every day. She’d lead discussions, lecture, everything from that post. I remember the exact angle of the view of her on that stool from my desk, as well as the dull horror I could not escape the day the jerks finally broke her down.

They got on all of our nerves. They’d talk while she was talking, ask stupid questions (yes, there is such a thing), and find some way to make a “joke” out of pretty much anything she or anyone else said. This was every day’s business. Usually, she’d reign the class in and continue while the rest of us seethed.

This day, though, there was no reigning in. I don’t even remember what the last straw was. All I remember is that all of a sudden, Ms. D was not speaking gently anymore. And I don’t even remember what she said–I think I’ve tried to block it. I just know she broke it down for the jerks. Without even leaving her stool.

And, for once, they didn’t have anything to say.

It was wonderful and awful, and I felt like a very, very small person. I knew I wasn’t guilty of anything, but just the very fact that anyone had pushed Ms. D to this point was just absurd and sickening, and I didn’t want to be in the presence of it. I still get a weird feeling in my stomach thinking of it.

I’m no Ms. D. I raise my voice and can be a real witch sometimes–I own that. Not proud of it, but not ashamed either. I hope to ease into a more gently guiding presence for my classes, but right now, it’s all about survival. Thus, a breakdown from me is not quite as powerful an anomaly as it was from Ms. D. And, she didn’t cry–she just gave herself permission to set some kids straight. And rightfully so.

I can be a hothead. I’m really reactive. Today was different, though. I’m not as deserving of a “moment” as Ms. D was, but I like to think maybe it can be a similar turning point, if for no one but myself.