My So-Called Teaching Career
by Troll Princess
I think I have failed my students.
No, wait. I know I have failed my students. I mean, look at this grade book. As I have told Jubilation more than once, no, you do not get credit in my English Lit class for actually speaking it. (And I'd also like to add that I really wish she'd stop living her life according to "Buffy the Vampire Slayer." I saw that episode, too, you know.)
The kids hate me. No, seriously, they hate me. I mean, they respect me, but then again, they'd respect a bucketful of Jello if their academic future depended on it.
I don't get it. Storm doesn't have problems getting the kids to listen to her. Neither do Jeannie or the Professor. And Logan ... Logan's been teaching any kid who wants to learn self-defense, and on the first day of class, he broke six concrete blocks with his head. You try reminding the little bastards that his skull is made out of metal. None of them listen to me.
Take Jubilation. Yesterday, I had a discussion with her about her English grade. I worry about her, you know. We started talking about the next chapter on metaphors and similes and she used the word "like" more than I did.
And then there's St. John, who was supposed to write a heartfelt love poem in the style of William Shakespeare and used the word "Nantucket."
It gets worse. Kitty Pryde has become a troublemaker by association. Last week, she watched "Star Trek: The Next Generation," and now she can't stop giggling whenever she sees the Professor. It doesn't seem to bother him, but I just wish she'd stop calling me Number Two. I don't like the connotation.
On Monday, I caught Peter Rasputin helping Bobby build a giant ice sculpture of all of us adults. They used the flagpole to support my sculpture. Trust me, I didn't appreciate it.
Why did I ever go into teaching? Oh, yeah. I forgot. Because the Professor suggested it. Personally, I think it's some kind of gratuitous thrill for him. It would certainly explain the maniacal laughter I keep hearing in his office late at night.
Case in point -- my college major. There really isn't a specific major for someone who's looking to get into the superhero field. I mean, let's look at your typical secret identity job for a superhero.
Journalist -- Not a chance. I already had no social life.
Vigilante cop -- And I thought I was wearing a bad costume when I was in that yellow-and-blue-spandex phase ... not to mention that one costume that made me look like a poor man's deep-sea diver.
International playboy -- Sorry, just not rich enough.
Mercenary -- Oh, sure. That would work. "Ma'am, what did the assailant look like?" "Well, he was wearing red aviator sunglasses and black leather." So now it's between Tom Cruise and me. Right.
Professional t'ief -- Oops, sorry about that. Sometimes I drop my 'h's. I think it's genetic.
So, anyway, Professor Xavier suggests English Lit, and I take English Lit because the Professor is never wrong. Problem is, there are only two career opportunities for English Lit majors -- professional writers, and English Lit teachers.
I'll admit, I did try that professional writer bit for a while. But they say write about what you know. Okay, Dad's a space cowboy, I shoot laser beams out of my eyes, Mom's dead, and my brother's a doofus.
As for my fiancee, she has the hots for a Canadian guy. Last night in bed, she asked me to say "aboot." Needless to say, I'm suspicious.
I'm really starting to worry about my relationship with Jean, too. Today, I was in the garage working on my bike, and she came in and said, "I just want to be friends."
I wasn't even paying attention. I said, "Oh, yeah. With who?"
As if I didn't know "with who." She wants to break it off with me for that Canadian-bacon-eating, ice-fishing, curling-loving, metric-system-using, Maple Leaf fan. It's no fair. She's supposed to be engaged to me, damn it. Me. M. E. Me!
And besides, I saw him first!
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