I’m subbing at a middle school when my co-teacher makes an announcement about the upcoming English Language Arts (ELA) tests. The New York State standardized exams are two days long, untimed, and often administered on a computer.

A girl raises her hand. She asks if she can skip the test if she gets her parents to write a note. The teacher doesn’t skip a beat—I get the sense she’s answered this a hundred times.

“Yes,” she says, nodding at the student. Then the teacher launches into a spiel about the importance of testing.

I think to myself: Yes? Wouldn’t a parent want to know how their child performs across reading, writing, listening, and language proficiency?

The seventh graders are barely paying attention when I decide to pipe up.

“It’s like competition—in sports, in anything,” I say. “Tests can help you learn how to perform under pressure. It’s a muscle that you build.”

A couple of girls burst into giggles. I realize I may have become suddenly animated in my excitement. The teacher turns to me with a surprised look on her face.

“That’s right, Ms. Catchatoorian.”

That moment stuck with me because I used to be the kid who dreaded tests more than anything. If I could’ve gotten out of them easily, I would’ve jumped at the chance. The very thought of an upcoming exam had me tossing and turning the night before, my stomach twisted in knots. I had to take my SATs twice, and I still don’t know how I got through them. Well, that’s partly true.

During my senior year of high school, I began picking at the cuticle on my right thumb. There were other factors going on at home, namely my parents’ constant bickering. For whatever reason, picking at my thumbnail became my way of coping with emotional pressure. Without fully realizing it, I’d pick the skin around my nail bloody. Afterwards, I’d slap on a Band-Aid and promise my mother I would stop. I wasn’t able to break the habit until my thirties.

Nowadays, many schools offer resources such as classes that teach students how to manage emotional stress. Specialized classrooms where they can take quizzes and tests in private, away from distractions like other kids. We didn’t have these supports in the ’80s. Had we, I probably could have saved myself a lot of Band-Aids, and heartache.

It took me several years into my young adult life before I felt somewhat grounded. From acting auditions to job interviews, to tech issues on a music stage, I learned how to navigate life’s thorny scenarios.

Stress is unavoidable. How we meet it is another story. And it’s in facing that fear—showing up despite our terror—that the real success lies. Not the grade, not the job offer, but the willingness to step forward anyway, time and time again.

Maybe that’s what those tests are really for. Not to measure young minds, but strengthen them.

***

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Part 2 – Theatre: Finding my Stage

In the spring of 1986, my ninth-grade English teacher, Ms. Towler, had us reading a Shakespeare play aloud in class—was it Romeo and Juliet? I can’t recall now. What I do remember is thinking, I have no idea what these characters are talking about, and yet loving the feel of the beautiful words spoken out loud. Each time I read, I found myself eagerly waiting for my turn to come around again. When the bell rang, Ms. Towler asked me to come to her desk. Being a somewhat quiet student, I wasn’t used to being singled out. I worried I might be in trouble. She must have seen the concern on my face, because she quickly said she would write me a hall pass.

I never paid much attention to Ms. Towler. I often heard classmates whisper cruel things about her size behind her back. She was a heavyset woman with a doughy, poker face. I could never get a read on her. I remember how large her eyes seemed, almost otherworldly, behind her coke-bottle glasses. I wore thick glasses too, but mine made my eyes look small and beady. Unlike other teachers, Ms. Towler never stood at the blackboard; she taught from behind her desk, where she seemed planted like a rock. Even then, I sensed her insecurity. It must be her size, I thought.

It wasn’t until I stood before her, on the other side of that desk, that I saw her fully, up close. As I watched her shuffle papers across the cluttered surface, something in me shifted—a quiet sense of compassion took root. I wasn’t heavyset, but I knew what it meant to be targeted. I had endured my own share of teasing about the hair on my arms. I knew the feeling of wanting to hide. To be invisible.

“You have a way of reading out loud,” she said casually in her southern drawl. Then she handed me a yellow sheet of paper. “I think you might like this.”

At the top, in bold black capital letters, was the word AUDITION. Beneath it: Forensics Speech and Debate Team.

“What’s this?” I asked, completely confused.

She explained that within Forensics there was a competitive category known as Humorous Interpretation or Dramatic Interpretation. In it, students performed excerpts from plays in front of a panel of judges. She thought I might enjoy it. The audition was the following week.

I stood there, turning her words over in my mind. I had auditioned to be a cheerleader three years in a row and never made it past the first cut. I tried out to be a flag girl, convinced my dance moves would carry me through. It didn’t (see my recent post on my jazz dilemma). Marching band was out of the question—I hated the stiff uniforms. I had nowhere to go and nothing to lose.

“How do I audition?” I asked.

Ms. Towler helped me choose a monologue. When I told her I wanted to perform Hamlet’s “To be, or not to be,” she gave me a puzzled look.

“But that’s a male character. There’s Ophelia—”

“But I like this one,” I said, pointing to the play in my hand.

The famous speech resonated with me in a way I couldn’t explain at the time. Looking back, I think it was because, like Hamlet, I felt myself standing at a crossroads in my budding teenage life.

Ms. Towler peered at me through her thick glasses and let out a warm, hearty chuckle.

“By all means,” she said, “go for it.”

And I did.

A teacher I barely spoke to, yet saw every day, chose to take a small chance on me. That moment set me on a path toward a lifelong love of storytelling, one that has taken shape in theatre, music, and writing throughout my life.

Back then, I didn’t understand what confidence was, and in many ways, I’m still learning. But in that brief, pivotal moment, when Ms. Towler placed that flyer in my hand, I was given my first glimpse of it.

I recently looked up Ms. Towler and learned that she passed away in 2013 at the age of 65. I never had the chance to thank her in person, but her influence has stayed with me all these years.

Thank you, Ms. Towler.

***

“The function of freedom is to free someone else.”

― Toni Morrison

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I often wonder if the kids I come into contact with will remember me. Am I just a random substitute passing through the halls of their school days? I’m always pleasantly surprised when a student recognizes me out in the wilderness of the world—the grocery store, the local cafe, the gas station. Elementary kids will either run up to me laughing or hide behind their parents’ legs, a look of bewilderment on their faces as their two worlds collide. Then there are the middle schoolers, who will quickly look away—so embarrassing—as they speed ahead so as not to be noticed by me.

Once over the summer, while I was riding my bike down a busy street, I heard my substitute name being yelled from yards behind me: “Yo, Ms. Cat, that’s Ms. Cat!” When I turned around, a young boy was cycling fast on my tail, a cheerful grin plastered on his face as he zoomed past me. I recognized him instantly. He was the aggressive 7th grader I had to deal with the year prior. I may have written a behavioral referral to the office, I can’t remember, but I do remember him being a big thorn in my day. Having grown up with two very domineering male figures in my life—my dad and my older brother, I’ve had to learn how to own my authority in a classroom where strong male students are present. It’s an ongoing challenge for me not to crumble or get into power struggles that lead nowhere except more resentment and frustration.

Flash forward to this year. I was subbing in an 8th grade self-contained class, and lo and behold, the aggressive student from the year before was in my class. Outside of a few hiccups, to my surprise, the day went pretty smoothly. I reminded him in class about our brief encounter on our bikes the previous summer, but he shook his head and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. That wasn’t me.” He pretended not to remember yelling my name. Instead, he started rapping a song out loud to drown out my words. I smiled to myself, thinking how fragile these tough young boys really are. In the last few minutes before the day was over, I found myself watching the boy fill up time as he talked to a Magic 8 Ball.

“Does Jesus love me?” he quipped, shaking the ball and causing a few kids to laugh.

There was a brief silence as I watched him search the ball for its answer.

“Yes,” I blurted out. I’m not particularly religious, but I hoped my response would offer some positive affirmation.

He said nothing, his eyes zeroed in on the fortune teller. A few moments passed and then suddenly he said,

“Does Ms. Cat love me?”

I sat up, charmed to hear him ask the question. He then giggled and shook the ball. I played along, laughing quietly to myself, thinking, yes…yes, I do.

The bell rang and the student dashed out the door, never revealing the Magic 8 Ball’s answer. After everyone left, I held the plastic ball in my hands. Perhaps my Magic 8 Ball question is not so much whether I will be remembered by the students, but whether I will remember them and the lessons they teach me, long after the school day ends.

P.S. As promised, part two of “How Do You Spell ‘Confidence’?” is coming soon!

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Part 1 – Dance: Learning to Leap

When I was a sophomore in high school, I took dance lessons at this rinky-dink studio near our home. A one-room storefront in a rundown strip mall near the Winn-Dixie supermarket, I took jazz classes there twice a week. At the time, in the 1980s, my family lived in Fayetteville, North Carolina—“Fayetnam,” or “Fatalville,” as the Goth kids later dubbed it. The military town, designed for the G.I.’s stationed nearby, was not exactly brimming with artistic culture. “Pawn shops, car lots, and titty bars,” my arty pals and I used to joke. We all couldn’t wait to get the heck out of there. But where would we go? And what would we do?

I was an awkward teenager who mainly kept to myself so as not draw attention to how different I looked compared to my white and Black schoolmates. “If you ain’t mixed, what is you?”, was a common wisecrack I heard from my peers. After finally ditching my coke bottle glasses and getting contact lenses—my parents made me wait until I was sixteen—I felt like I was beginning to settle into myself. Yet, whenever teachers or adults asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I had no real answer that felt true. “I don’t know,” I moaned, casting my eyes downward. My brother, on the other hand, knew early on what he wanted and set his sights on going to college on a soccer scholarship. He had a plan. I had a big question mark.

One night after dance class, my instructor asked me to stay behind. I assumed she was about to tell me how talented I was and invite me to take the lead in the upcoming recital. I could do the hip walk like no one else. A youngish woman in her twenties, she gathered her belongings as the studio emptied out. I stood beside her, patiently waiting as my heart thudded in the now quiet room.

“I watch you dance,” she said, unzipping her bag. “You’re musically inclined. For sure.”

I sensed a ‘but’ coming and began tugging at my tights.

She went on to explain that my leaps across the floor would be stronger if I allowed myself to leap freely.

“My leaps?” I asked.

Why the heck was she harping on my leaps? I had good leaps—funky hip rolls, too—better than any of my non-jivin’ dance mates.

She must have sensed my defensiveness because she stopped packing and looked me squarely in the face.

“What you’re missing is confidence.”

A heaviness settled in my chest. I blinked at her, repeating the word silently. Confidence. I knew what it meant. But why was she saying it to me? Suddenly, I was panicking.

“Confidence,” I heard myself say. “Where… where can I get that?”

I thought she might point me to a method, a class, some secret I’d been missing. She stared at me, momentarily speechless, as if I’d asked for directions to a place she’d never been. Then she stuttered out some vague platitude about hard work.

Looking back, this memory sticks with me for many reasons. For one, it pains me to think of my teenage self searching for confidence outside herself, as if she could run next door to the Winn-Dixie and buy it. It saddens me that I didn’t have an instructor who could wholeheartedly affirm my talent (nor parents equipped to pick up where she left off), which might have helped me find my confidence sooner.

Teachers hold that potential in their hands. That’s why I don’t take my work as a substitute teacher lightly. Every interaction is an opportunity to bolster a child’s self-esteem—whether I’m teaching art, dreadful math, or anything in between. Not all kids receive that kind of nurturing at home, and even when they do, they still may value a teacher’s, coach’s, or dance instructor’s opinion more than a caregiver’s.

And yet, had that dance instructor not deflated my sense of promise as a dancer, I might never have discovered theatre, which came into my life shortly after that letdown. Theatre became my saving grace—my way into building self-confidence. More on that, and the English teacher who spotted my raw acting talent, in the next newsletter.

This is an open thread. I’d love to hear your stories about teachers who shaped your future—for better or worse.

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In 1985, at the age of forty-three, my mother suddenly decided to return to school. After years of working in customer service jobs at the various Air Force bases where we lived, she wanted a change. Her dream? To become a professional hairstylist. “A beautician,” I can still hear her say in her Thai-Indian accent as she corrects me. Although she had earned a high school diploma in Thailand, she needed a U.S. one to attend Mitchell’s Hairstyling Academy located at Cross Creek Mall in Fayetteville, North Carolina, where we were living at the time.

“Bobs,” she tells me now over the phone, a lilt in her voice, when I ask which hairstyle she liked cutting best.

I was a frenetic high school freshman obsessed with boys—and not much else. Though I’d managed to score a French kiss during a game of spin the bottle, I had yet to experience real heartbreak. Losing my “Lucky Star” earring was that year’s greatest tragedy. I say all this because, at the time, I didn’t fully comprehend what it must have taken for my mother to go back to school—not only in middle age, but with a shaky grasp of English. By then, she had been living in America for about fifteen years (she immigrated to the U.S. from Thailand after marrying my dad in 1969), and although I understood her when she spoke, her sentences were often strung together with misplaced pronouns and other grammatical errors. Her accent was thick. It still is—though now it’s sprinkled with Southern phrases from years of living in North Carolina. Phrases like, “What y’all do for Christmas, girl?”

In public, dread would sneak up on my teenage, self-obsessed self, slowly building into utter mortification as I watched strangers’ questioning looks whenever my mom spoke. At school, I worked hard to hide my Thai, Indian, and Armenian heritage. Now I felt exposed. Sometimes I would interject to translate her words. Other times—like when we would go to the mall to make a return—I’d beg her to let me do the talking. “No, I can speak for myself!” she’d snap. I would watch the flustered sales clerk turn beet red, silently praying that no one from school was within earshot, thinking, Oh my gawd, so embarrassing.

At home, behind closed doors, my older brother and I teased my mom’s English. Her botched versions of American idioms became the highlight of our evening entertainment, and even my dad joined in. “Break my legs, Mom—should I break my legs?” I’d quip, laughing, parroting what she once said to me the night of my dance recital. My mom pretended to be in on the joke, chuckling along with us. But I can’t imagine she ever really was. It pains me now to think how much she was holding inside.

After only a few months at Fayetteville Technical Community College, something incredible happened: my mother’s English improved drastically. Gone were the misplaced pronouns, and though her accent remained, her speech was crisp, her pronunciation beautiful. She moved through the house as if she’d grown a few inches taller.

“Make your own dinner,” she’d say on her way out the door. “I have school.” There was a new steadiness in her voice. I remember feeling proud of her, though I didn’t quite know what to do with that feeling. I tried to tell her once while we were folding laundry together.

“Mom, did you hear me?”

“Gimme that pillowcase,” she said, unfolding and then refolding the one I had just finished.

“I said I’m proud of you.”

“Yes, I hear you,” she replied, picking up a towel from the pile. “You do it too fast—it gets wrinkles.”

She smoothed the fabric flat between her palms, easing out the crease. We folded together in silence until the moment passed and the basket was empty.

***

I am an American-born child of immigrants. Perhaps that’s why I have a special fondness for teaching ESL (English as a Second Language) students. In these high school classes, I see a hunger and frustration among students that I rarely see elsewhere. Mostly filled with Hispanic teens, I can only imagine what they went through to gain their place in this American school—what hurdles, what dangers, what humiliation.

At the start of each ESL class, there are usually a few minutes where the students check me out. This lady is brown, but does she speak Spanish? their faces seem to ask. Once they realize I don’t actually speak Spanish, it’s game on. I open Google Translate on my computer and begin instructing the day’s assignment, in both English and Spanish. They seem to enjoy my poor attempt at their language. “You must stay focused,” I say as they laugh at my efforts to bridge the language gap.

One day, a tough-looking girl with long black hair approached me as I was struggling through the teacher’s lengthy sub notes.

“Here, Ms. C,” she said in English, holding out her hand. “I can help.”

I smiled, surprised at how well she spoke English. Later, when half the class was goofing off and snacking on Takis Fuego chips, a very frustrated me frenetically typed into Google Translate. Afterwards, I asked the tough-looking girl to read out loud to the class what I had written. I watched her as she read quietly to herself, a soft smile slowly creeping across her face. She looked at me as if to say, “Really?” I nodded. This was what she read to the class in Spanish that day:

“You must try to do the best that you can. Today. Tomorrow’s vision—your dreams for the future—start today. In this very moment. In this very class. You commit to doing your work, little by little, and I promise you, you will see miracles unfold in your life. Sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, but always. Whatever you want to be, whatever you want to do, starts today.”

The bell rings. After I say goodbye to everyone, I go to my desk. A yellow post-it note, scrawled in black marker, sits atop a pile of paperwork. It says: Gracias por todo, Ms. C. (Thanks for everything, Ms. C.) I smile and carefully take the note, slipping it into my backpack. Months later, it still hangs on the wall near my writing table.

PS: My letter to the class in Thai and Spanish:

คุณต้องพยายามทำอย่างดีที่สุดเท่าที่จะทำได้ในวันนี้ วิสัยทัศน์ในวันพรุ่งนี้—ความฝันของคุณสำหรับอนาคต—เริ่มต้นในวันนี้ ในช่วงเวลานี้ ในห้องเรียนนี้ คุณมุ่งมั่นที่จะทำงานของคุณทีละเล็กทีละน้อย และฉันสัญญาว่าคุณจะได้เห็นปาฏิหาริย์เกิดขึ้นในชีวิตของคุณ บางครั้งอาจช้า บางครั้งอาจเร็ว แต่จะเกิดขึ้นเสมอ ไม่ว่าคุณอยากจะเป็นอะไร ไม่ว่าคุณอยากจะทำอะไร เริ่มต้นในวันนี้

Debes intentar hacer lo mejor que puedas. Hoy. La visión del mañana —tus sueños para el futuro— empieza hoy. En este preciso momento. En esta misma clase. Comprométete a hacer tu trabajo, poco a poco, y te prometo que verás milagros en tu vida. A veces lentamente, a veces rápido, pero siempre. Lo que quieras ser, lo que quieras hacer, empieza hoy.

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Dear Little One with Big Shoes,

I watch you sleep on the classroom rug, your breath slow and steady. You lie motionless on your back. Your face, strangely peaceful, tilts toward the ceiling. Your mouth, once so quick to spit insults at any teacher who told you “no,” lifts ever so slightly at the corners. You look as though you might smile. I wonder if you are dreaming. Kindergartners climb over your body on their way to their buses, on their way home. I worry they might wake you. Your eyes flutter gently, yet remain closed. I lean in to get a closer view. It’s hard to believe you’re so calm, so still. Just yesterday they called you feral. I notice the dry mud stains on your cheeks. The laces of your boots in knots. Boots from the school’s care closet, given to replace the oversized sneakers your tiny feet were swimming in. You had no idea shoes could feel so right. Your arms rest beneath your head, and if one didn’t know, it might seem you were stargazing. I squint my eyes and try to imagine you as a teenager, lying in the bed of your Dad’s pickup, perhaps a special friend beside you, a bestie, the two of you gazing up into the black night.

Your offenses are many, Little One. Too many to list here. The chair you hurled at the TA forced her to stop wearing sandals. Last month, I heard your cackling laughter while the teachers and staff chased your wild, speeding body through the parking lot. You heard the word ‘eloping’ and wondered if they would still give you extra raisins at snack time. That day, one of the teachers mentioned calling your father, and you froze. I can still see the terror in your eyes. I don’t tell you this then, though I want to, that I know what it’s like to have a father you’re afraid of. How confusing it can be to love someone so much, who hurts you.

I spoke to you once, Little One, and you told me to “shut up bitch.” I was taken aback at first, yet curious. It was a new development for you, the swearing, the middle finger, the ‘shut up motherfucker’s’ you spewed in the lunch room to any kid who dared to challenge you. I marveled at your linguistic skills. The ‘tch’  sound can be hard for some kindergartners to grasp. I told myself you were mimicking one of your older brothers, or more likely, your dad. Perhaps someone told you this is what it means to be a man. Calling women bitches. Later, when I asked someone if there was a mother at your home, they shook their head and sighed.

The announcer calls your bus over the loudspeaker, and I know I must wake you. A girl pops in and yells, “C’mon, c’mon, wakey-wakey!” The two of us rock you, but you don’t budge. The girl begins to shake your leg. I tell her to hold on as I gently brush the bangs across your forehead. Your eyes flutter open. Then suddenly go wide. You jolt up, flinch, and draw your knees close to your chest. I tell you it’s OK, you’re at school, you fell asleep. I see the confusion on your face as you look around in panic. I try not to imagine the scenarios I tell myself you must’ve lived through. Scenarios I wish I could wipe clear from your impressionable mind.

Several weeks later, there is snow everywhere, and I return to your school. I’m astonished at how well you are playing with your fellow classmates. When I mention this to your teachers, they sigh as if they’ve just come from battle, a look of weariness on their faces. You are building a LEGO rocket with the girl who helped wake you that day you fell asleep on the rug. I pull up a chair and join the two of you. As I watch you play, something stirs inside me and my eyes suddenly turn watery. I think about the idea of miracles and the daily work it takes to stay hopeful against all odds.

The girl offers you a LEGO piece, and you take it. There’s a brief silence.

“Will you be my bestie?” I hear you say to her.

The girl smiles, then carefully takes hold of your hand.

***

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I visited my mom this past weekend. She lives in an assisted living facility just south of Charlotte, North Carolina. Though my family was nervous about the change, my mother has taken to the new living arrangement like a duck takes to water. On our FaceTime calls, she has a lilt in her voice as she tells me about all the fun activities she enjoys — oil painting, flower arranging, movie nights, and bingo. Sometimes she mentions live music. This gives me an idea.

Most of my music gigs these days are in the classroom where I belt out songs about the five senses, rainbows, and dinosaurs. However, there was a time when I first moved to New York fifteen years ago, when I had a lunchtime gig at a restaurant chain called Potbelly’s Sandwich Shop. I played guitar and sang cover songs for two hours straight, five days a week. A fellow musician once called it a “ditch-digging gig,” and it was. I think I was paid $50 +tips. But far from the salary, it was at Potbelly’s (which I worked at for about two years) that I honed my skills as a solo performer. I learned how to handle distractions, the lack of applause, and, more importantly, how to handle hecklers.

My mom’s facility arranged for a music stand. I set up my guitar beside it and began to sing to the crowd of seniors settling in at their tables for lunch. There were plenty of walkers, wheelchairs, and blank stares. A very different audience than the elementary schools I’m used to. As I began my set, starting off with a Potbelly’s favorite: “What Light”, by Wilco, I saw my mother buzzing from table to table speaking loudly in her Thai-Indian accent,

“That is my daughter, she is a singer from New York!”

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It was very sweet to see my mom after all these years, boasting about me and my talent. I wasn’t always so thrilled about her bragging. I recall when, as a teenager, I won the Discovery Talent Search contest (our southern town’s version of Star Search) for a monologue I wrote and performed. Mom showed the VHS recording of my TV performance to every single neighbor on our street. I was mortified. I think about this as I nod to my mom in the back of the dining area and begin to sing a little louder. Around this time, a white-haired lady with jet-black eyebrows and overdrawn red lips rolled up in a wheelchair to the table directly in front of me. She instantly turned to me and scowled. Just ignore her, I told myself. Potbelly Lesson Number One: Don’t let other people and their problems distract you.

The dining staff breezed by with platters of food as more residents strolled into the dining hall. The jet-black Eyebrow Lady shook her finger in my direction as she whined to a server. I decided to sing a love song. “Take Me With U “ by Prince was once a standard in my set, and as I softly began the intro, the melody and the lyrics rushed back to me. By the time I got to the bridge, I was singing full voice, belting to the heavens above. This drove the bitter Eyebrow Lady mad as I watched her squeeze her fists. I got to the final verse and brought it down a notch, softly crooning,

Drive me crazy, drive me all night.

The Eyebrow Lady’s back stiffened in her wheelchair. She turned to me with a steely gaze and said,

“You’re driving me crazy.” The emphasis on ‘me’.

After the song ended, I told the audience about my experience as a substitute teacher and how I mentored young students on how to handle bullies. For more on this, read my recent story, “Bullies and Punks.” The elderly crowd didn’t seem to grasp my idea on teaching a third-grader how to “shake it off” like Taylor Swift, or that I was trying to casually address the Eyebrow Lady’s heckling, so I went back to playing the Beatles and John Denver, which they loved. Potbelly Lesson Number Two: know your crowd.

Later, after returning from the dining hall, we ran into the Eyebrow Lady in the hallway. She proceeded to bark at my mom that I needed singing lessons. My mom laughed and waved her hand in the air. Growing up, it was a gesture I’d seen her do countless times whenever my dad yelled or made threatening remarks. I was horrified at the woman’s comments and started to quickly walk away. My mom told me to wait up, which I did. She approached me and said,

“Don’t listen to her, she is a bitch.”

I smiled at my mother as I wrapped my arm around her shoulders. We walked together for a few moments in silence when suddenly I turned to her.

“Mom, when did you start cursing?”

“What?” she said, lifting her nose in the air. “It’s not a curse, it’s true.”

Potbelly Lesson Number Three: When the love comes, take it in.

As a substitute teacher, it can be challenging at times for me to own my authority in the classroom. The stereotype fits. I can be easily fooled, a pushover, and feel like a random body in the room, mispronouncing names as I spin through a stack of subnotes. However, one day, something shifted in me. Maybe it had something to do with the way the head teacher (whom I was subbing for) ignored my questions during the morning meeting. It put me on edge. Had it not been for the TA (teacher’s assistant) who politely said to me after the head teacher left, “Just so you know, you’re in charge here,” I wouldn’t have known I was even needed. Throughout the morning, I confidently strolled the aisles, helping the third-graders with their writing journals. It was then that a boy with long hair and Converse sneakers approached me.

“So and so is talking about me,” he said.

I glanced over at the student in question. He snickered as he tried to hide his guilt. I told him to stop goofing around and focus on his work. A few minutes went by. The long-haired boy approached me again. This time, the student in question was making farting noises. I pointed to an empty chair and instructed the long-haired boy to move. I glanced at the accused windbreaker, a serious look upon my face.

“Do you need to use the boys’ room?”

He and his buddy giggled as they dropped their heads. This tattletale and rebuke routine went on for several minutes until finally, I’d had enough. I led the long-haired boy to a quiet corner.

“Listen,” I said, “life is full of bullies, OK? Just wait ’til you get to middle school, it gets worse.”

The long-haired boy’s eyes grew big as he gazed up at me with terror. I paused, surprised by my own frustration. Suddenly I noticed his t-shirt. It was bright yellow, the letters on the front read, ‘AC/DC’. I had a bright yellow AC/DC t-shirt too. I loved AC/DC. I straightened my back and sighed. The boy watched me, a confused look on his face.

“Do you know who that band is?” I said, calmly pointing to his shirt.

He shook his head.

“That band is the coolest, bada—I stopped myself, remembering I was in a school setting— they’re the coolest band ever, and you have their t-shirt on, you know why?”

He hesitated, then shook his head again.

“Because so are you. I look at you, and I see a cool kid, a shining star. Someone doing great things, going great places, way beyond this school, way beyond this nonsense with these kids. Philosopher, writer, rock scientist—I don’t know, whatever you wanna be—you ain’t got time for this! You’re going places!”

As I spoke, I began to feel my heart pound inside my chest, my breathing quickened, and all of a sudden, a surge of unexplainable tears rose to my eyes, threatening to explode. I looked at the boy. He was staring up at me, his lips parted. His eyes deep and tender. We stared at each other for a few moments in silence, both our eyes brimming with tears.

***

I was a sensitive child who was mocked and ridiculed from an early age. On a recent phone call, my older brother joked about how I once bawled my eyes out in daycare because the other kids made fun of the bulky military-style thermal underwear that my unfashionable mother dressed me in. I was wearing a dress. I have no recollection of this memory. I must’ve been four or five, my brother three years older. When I asked him why Mom dressed me in long johns, he sighed.

“Who knows, maybe to cover your hair.”

There was a silence on the line. Both of us knew how growing up, the hair on my arms and legs was a great source of shame for me. I was teased relentlessly, the kids beyond cruel.

“You didn’t say anything? To the other kids in the daycare, a teacher?” I asked.

“Nah, you know, I just kept to myself, I guess.”

I imagined my brother has had his own demons to contend with over the years. Our father was a conundrum prone to violent fits of rage. Our mother, often checked out. I hesitated before I asked my next question.

“Couldn’t find it in you to protect your sister, huh?”

I heard my brother chuckle on the phone.

“I was a punk.”

***

Life is full of bullies and punks. In addition to calling them out, we need to empower their targets. Learning self-confidence, or the lack-thereof, starts young.

“Don’t let these bullies weigh you down,” I said to the long-haired boy. “You just shake it off like Taylor Swift, ya know?”

He nodded at this, a musical reference he got.

I repeated the words, “shake it off,” as I brushed my arms and shoulders like I was shaking off a lifetime of heartache. The long-haired boy slowly lifted his hand and began to copy me. Both of us smiling, shaking it off together.

“The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don’t have any.” ~Alice Walker

PS: The long-haired boy never approached me again about the bullying. And indecently, the bullying stopped.

On this day, we sang a few turkey songs, then I cued up Dolly Parton’s “Coat of Many Colors” to play in the background while the second graders colored. A favorite of mine, the song is a true story about Dolly’s impoverished upbringing. Her mother lovingly sews her a coat from rags, and she learns life lessons about love, faith, and overcoming poverty. Things were going pretty smoothly when all of a sudden, a student pulled my arm and told me someone was crying. I looked across the room to see a boy with his head in his hands, his body curled over the table. I figured he was upset about his drawing not being good enough, or something of this nature. When I squatted down and met his eyes, I noticed his face was covered in tears. His breathing, shallow and erratic. I rested my palm on his back to help ground him, and we breathed slowly together. He eventually calmed down, and I asked what was troubling him. He burst into tears and sobbed,

“I miss my mommy and daddy.”

This was not about his drawing. One of the kids put her arm around his shoulder and told him she was sorry. Soon, more students surrounded us. Everyone was talking loudly. A couple of boys started to chase each other around the bookshelves, toppling over books. I yelled for everyone to have a seat. No one listened. The troubled boy started heaving, gasping for air between cries. I tried to soothe him while maintaining my own calmness. Someone tapped my arm and said they needed to use the bathroom—it was “urgent”. I was going bonkers. I looked at the door, hoping the library assistant who was on her lunch break would walk through. Meanwhile, Dolly was playing in the background on a loop: In my coat of many colors, My momma made for me. Just then, the little boy started to gag. I panicked and reached my arm out to him. Everyone got quiet. I watched the boy as he jerked his neck then lurched forward, his mouth wide open. Pink goo poured from his mouth and onto his turkey drawing. For a brief moment, we all stood still, staring at the puddle of vomit. Quickly, I ran to grab paper towels and told everyone to stand back.

“We need to go to the nurse’s office!” I yelled.

I dialed the office for help. The boy stood up slowly, plodding toward the door. Suddenly, he collapsed over and chucked up the rest of his lunch onto the floor. His body limp, his mouth smeared with puke.

***

I’ve found that art and music are the two subjects that bring up the deepest, hidden emotions in children—and adults. In retelling this story, I’m reminded of the time right after my father died. I struggled to find the tears to mourn his passing. I was a bitter twenty-something. I felt guilty for feeling relief—finally, I was free from my father’s controlling stare, his cold threats, his smothering love. I tried to carry on with my life as if nothing had happened. Yet the following week in my guitar lesson, while my teacher fiddled with his guitar, he plucked three notes in such a way, in such a delicate, haunting rhythm, it sent me spiraling into a gush of tears. It was the first three notes of Taps. The bugle call that was played at my dad’s funeral before we cremated his body.

***

The library assistant finally arrived and took the troubled boy to the nurse. I don’t know what prompted his tears that day. If it was the sad, mournful music that was playing, the lyrics echoing his own longing for his mom, who I tell myself is no longer in his life. Or perhaps something else entirely. I recall an interview with Bruce Springsteen in which he spoke about music being a nonverbal language. How people go to it because “sometimes the language that we speak every day doesn’t work that well”. I never got to say goodbye to my dad before he died. Despite our complications, I do miss him. More so around the holidays. Somehow, I think he knows this. In the same way, I’m certain the troubled boy’s mommy and daddy know. Grief, whether sudden or delayed, will always rise if there’s an opening. Sometimes it just takes three musical notes. Sometimes, a lifetime.

Wishing you and your loved ones a peaceful holiday.