I suppose in some parallel universe I am a fantastic English teacher. My joy for the subject has always stemmed from a genuine burning love for literature and poetry. Some of the happiest moments of my life have included sitting in Kerouac’s favorite chair in his favorite bar in Seattle. I spent far too much time one afternoon in Concord studying Emerson’s house. I just met my fiancée’s sister that afternoon and I’m sure I made a lousy first impression. “Nice to meet you, I’m a total geek. Let’s go stalk some long dead writer.” God forbid I ever visit Emily Dickinson’s hometown.

Like so many things in life, I have a romantic view and I know the harsh reality wouldn’t hold up to the light of day. This dream I lived. Well, sorta. I’ll leave the firing I still consider unfair (it was on THE 9-11) and the circumstances that found me teaching high school English all those years ago out of this narrative. I’m fortunate it didn’t work out because it triggered a chain of events that brought me here. Yet it also soiled my passion for a career that I loved from day one.

So if I get the gumption and the desire, I know I could teach again. I just wonder how long I would last. Between the education system’s love of syntax and grammar over literature and poetry to the dedication of at least 98% of my time to teaching specifically for the FCAT, I don’t think it would be all it is cracked up to be. Still more than a small part of me wants to engage some kids in Edgar Allen Poe on Halloween or Robert Frost in the dead of winter. Oh captain, my captain. I still hate grammar.