The sweaty teacher's lament - Justin Lamb

I'd love to be the compassionate teacher;

the tough, but fair teacher.

But to my brilliant young minds,

these scholars for whom I'd stand up at all costs,

I'm the sweaty teacher.

Not the compassionate teacher who,

hey, by the way, happens to sweat,

or even the teacher who sweats.

No. The sweaty teacher.

Adjective, sweaty

purposefully coming before noun, teacher,

as if to say, "This is Mr. Lamb.

Do not define him by the profession he devotes his life to.

Define him by the geysers he calls armpits."

Every morning, I wake up in a cold...

nevermind.

The easy-going teacher says,

"I shouldn't sweat it."

The loud teacher says,

"YEAH YOU SHOULDN'T SWEAT IT!"

But even the empathetic teacher doesn't understand.

I've got funny teacher potential.

I used to pretend the notes I confiscated in class

were thank you letters.

Acknowledgements of my great teaching.

"Oh ho ho, you shouldn't have!"

Until I intercepted one about a Mr. Stank Pits.

No, really. You shouldn't have.

Ever since I've started developing quirky habits

to deflect attention,

to become someone new:

the teacher who shrugs his shoulders

really aggressively.

The teacher who tucks his tie into his pants

and pulls the end out his fly

because he's so wacky.

But it's no use.

Because I had the sweaty teacher, too, for geography.

And to this day I cannot remember the capital of Bulgaria,

and the two bodies of water I know the most about

sat below his shoulders.

And now, I'm the one

looking like I've got the Atlantic and Pacific

in headlocks.

The one being asked, "How was the dunk tank?"

"There was no dunk tank!

We live in New Orleans and it is humid!"

is how I'd respond if I was the angry teacher.

Instead, I look the kid in the eye

as the sweat cascades down my nose,

and splatters onto his blank paper below,

and I say, "I sweat because I am working my tail off

and I need you to do the same."