I walk into the classroom wearing my best fake confidence — tailored, ironed, and held together with the same hope that powers birthday candles. Can they tell how nervous I am? Probably. I’m pacing behind the computer like a stressed-out stage mom, trying not to knock anything over while the projector warms up and my dignity cools down. Every move feels like it's broadcasting “Look at me! I have no idea what I’m doing!”
And it’s not like I’ve never taught before. I’ve been in front of classrooms. As a graduate teaching instructor, this is hardly the first class I’ve stood in front of.
Teaching in public schools, for example, was a nightmare. There, I was competing with a ceiling fan that sounded like a dying airplane, a green-painted wall that somehow managed to be more interesting than me, the intense heat that welded everyone's shirt to their back, and one particularly annoying mosquito who decided to buzz directly above my head — stealing the attention of every student in the classroom, right when I was trying to talk about adjectives.
In my head, I know what I’m doing. Teaching isn’t new. But this—teaching college students in a foreign country- students who didn’t choose to be here and are only taking this class because someone told them they had to—this feels like walking a tightrope in roller skates. And I'm allergic to heights.
As the students start filing in, I pretend to be deeply invested in my computer screen. I’m not ready to make eye contact with people who might be able to smell fear. When class begins, and they glance at the screen, looking at my first slide, I think, “Well, here I go.” And then I trip over my very first sentence.
Classic.
I laugh awkwardly, as if to say, “Haha, let’s pretend that didn’t just happen! Let’s move on, shall we?” But nobody laughs back. At least not with me.
Some of them whisper, giggling to each other, then glancing at me. And of course, I think: “Am I the joke? Did I do something weird? Did my pants rip? Do I have something in my teeth again?”
I casually glance at the slide. No grammar errors. I double-check my nails — students notice that kind of thing. I know. I used to be one of them. Then I check my outfit: blue pants, long-sleeved black shirt, black Converse. Not exactly runway, but it wasn’t clown shoes and a “#1 Teacher” apron either. So … what was so funny?
I try to move on. So, instead of looking for answers, I keep talking. But sadly, each word that comes from my month, and how my students react to themmake me want to open a hole in the ground and throw myself in it.
As the class drags on, it’s hard not to feel like I’m failing. I spent over 20 hours of my weekend designing this slideshow, trying to make it engaging — fun, even for students who’d rather be doing anything else. And still, their faces are blank. Bored.
Their eyes say, “You’re doing it wrong.”
Their eyebrows whisper, “This is tragic.”
Their silence screams, “You’re the teacher, but we are still better than you.”
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When class ends, I sigh in relief. It’s over. They can go.
I pack up my things like a magician who just bombed their Vegas debut and head to the next room, wondering if that one mosquito from public school is free to guest lecture.
It’s an uncomfortable, never-ending cycle for me. What did I sign up for?
demeloa@miamioh.edu
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