Frontal Lobes and Nose Rings

I am a teacher. Suddenly and completely. I received a phone call while en route to a bartending shift on a Thursday night and was asked to come in the following morning at 7:30 for an interview, complete with a demo lesson. I could feel my face growing hot as I stepped on the gas, (unconsciously gunning it towards a stoplight, which is an apt metaphor for the last year of my life), slammed on the brakes, stopping just short of the car before me, and stammered an excited "yes". With my mind racing over how I would complete my bartending shift while planning a lesson mentally, and my car racing over surface streets with a proliferation of stoplights, I somehow managed to get to work in one piece, with exactly one minute to spare. That shift was the longest of my life.

The next morning came too soon, but upon dragging myself into the nearest Starbucks, applying make-up in the bathroom while my Americano percolated, and stepping back out into the brisk sunless morning, the fading stars and electric blue light on the Eastern horizon slapped me into a sharp consciousness. With butterflies, I drove my trusty '96, two-toned maxima into the city.

One demo lesson, one tour of the school, an invigorating interview, two hours, and one car tow later, I was unofficially told I had the job. The vice principal walked down the sidewalk to the tree under which I sat reading a book and waiting for a ride, to tell me I was “in”. I would have dropped the book I was reading had it not belonged to the principal. Instead I gripped it like it was the only thing holding me to this moment, the only hard proof that this was actually happening. I was being offered a job. After six years of school, 90,000 dollars in student loans, countless personal catastrophes, a year of self-deconstruction, and only two official interviews, on my second try, I landed. After barely launching, just catching the wind under my wings for the first time, I was being given a place to perch.

The vice-principal took an obvious joy in my excitement and disbelief. Then, she laughingly relayed the major concern of the students with whom I had interacted: my nose ring. What? I paused, considered what she had said, and laughed with her. But really. My nose ring?

It was not anger but a bewilderment that settled inside me after the VP went back inside. I sat for another ten minutes before my ride came, with the book still open in my lap, but I was no longer focused on reading strategies. I was completely occupied by the mysterious logic of high school students. Here I was, in an urban district, where I would have expected my standards of style (which, while not entirely conventional are not entirely unmapped and foreign) to be, if not praised, at least accepted without much attention. Everyone has nose rings these days: the 12-year-old suburbanites laughing in groups outside of movie theaters, the 35-year-old mangers at Starbucks, art teachers everywhere, and certainly, some English teachers. I fingered my unruly brown hair and thought how good it was that it never really took to dread-locks in spite of two sincere attempts in college. I found myself scrutinizing the rest of my attire and appearance. My black-rimmed glasses I think were okay, they looked professional enough. My preppy khaki pants were surely acceptable, right? My white button-down blouse was fine… but what about the fingerless gloves I wear? What about the knit winter hat? What about my high heels, which are more stylish than they are professional? And for that matter, what about my jewelry choices beyond my simple nose ring? Clunky costume jewelry… the bird ring that I wear on my middle finger as a kind of physical double entendre that makes me laugh internally? I mean, teachers are still people… right? These thoughts were all tangled together, a labyrinth of conflict that twisted under the pulsing glow of the good news. There was nothing negative about my musings, I was genuinely curious about my soon-to-be students’ perception of me. What in their life thus far had contributed to their immediate disapproval of my self-expression? And, how much of their disapproval should I acknowledge? Where does my responsibility to them as a teacher end and their responsibility for suspending interpersonal judgment and learning to extend acceptance and grace begin?

Two opposing thoughts emerged from this tangle. On the one hand, as an English teacher, communication and expression is at the heart of my teaching style and my personal objectives for my students. If I can give them anything, I want it to be an internal confidence in who they are and how they present themselves. This means more than just writing a cogent academic essay; it means walking out of my classroom and into the world with an understanding of themselves and others. It means teaching them to use language to represent themselves verbally and in writing. It means giving them the strength, and permission to be sure about the face they show to the world, whether that face has piercings or not. However, my idealistic leanings are tempered by a grounding in child-development, and I do understand that the mystical frontal lobe, with all its powers of logic, assessment, and its general ability to manage abstract thoughts, is not fully developed by the end of high school. Hence the other hand, which compels me to hold students to a higher level of thought, while meeting them where they presently are. In the case of these students and this urban district, I think that means developing a great deal of sympathy for their perspectives and perceptions of me, as unjust or unfounded as they may seem.

But what do all these thought exercises mean to me immediately when I walk in there this Monday and present myself to six sections of juniors and seniors as their new teacher? It means practically that I forgo my personal expression to help them uncover theirs. In other words, no more nose ring. Goodbye adornment that has been part of my life for approximately seven years.

Cognitive dissonance is welcome in my classroom. I hope to incite it. I am never happier than when students are sincerely questioning what “is” and exercising that beautiful frontal lobe of theirs; however, at this point of my career (1.5 days in) I don’t believe a teacher should incite that confusion with his or her person. I want my students to grapple with literature, and, eventually, I hope to gain enough of their trust and attention to lead them into cognitive struggles with theory, literary and cultural. I want debate. But I don’t want to face one hundred and fifty 17-year-olds over the course of the day and have the root of that debate and cognitive dissonance related to a personal decision I’ve made to put a metal ring through my left nostril.

And so, my adventures in teaching begin, one nose ring fewer and several cognitive exercises richer.

My frontal lobe itches from all this exertion.

(where can I get a barely noticeable tiny silver stud?)