Sentences
The instructor and the felon
I was forever taking headcounts of my students, as if somehow, by constantly staying abreast of exactly how many other bodies occupied the classroom, I was mentally exerting some type of control over the situation. Just as any confident, competent educator should.
No matter how much I was quaking internally.
In the fall of 2017, each of the writing classes at my university had a 25-seat capacity; on good days, around 23 of them showed up. I would start counting them in my mind, my eyes moving up and down the rows about five minutes before the class was to start, again shortly after class had started and I’d gotten everyone squared away on what they’d be doing during class that day, and a third time roughly halfway through the 75-minute class period — in case anyone crept away unnoticed and failed to return.
We all have our rituals.
Some people exhibit more observable tics — biting their nails, popping their knuckles, drumming their fingertips. Others engage in secretive but equally important internal ceremonies that bring them peace and allow them to maintain a semblance of cool when they’re feeling anything but.
It wasn’t to say that I was not, as aforementioned, confident or competent in my new position as a university instructor; on the contrary, I…
