november 23, 2000. Something strange is happening to me. I actually kind of like some of the classes I'm in. Don't get me wrong, I'm still mostly terrified. When I do attendance, I feel like I'm standing half-naked in a department store window. What if they just keep talking when I ask them to be quiet? What if I lose control when it's time to teach a lesson? They're like a big unpredictable herd of possibilities. But I am starting to like some of them, on average. I think it's easier now that the debates are over. During such topics as "Women are better than men," I couldn't get over my own anger. It's that professional detachment thing, I suppose. I know that if I ever do a debating unit, I will not assign topics like that, because I don't want to put myself in situations where I'll react personally to the students. There's a disturbing tendency to feel punitive about marks when you don't like someone, and that's indefensible. There have been studies done proving that the teacher's expectations of the student dramatically influence the amount of success that student will have during the year; allowing myself the luxury of disliking someone will effectively doom their outcome. Which is all a lot easier to resolve when you're in the theoretical bubble of the education program. Agamemnon said, "you can't like everyone and everyone can't like you." That's just as true in the classroom as it is in real life. And I already have a favourite kid. It was inevitable, really - he's like a Smith's song made flesh, a skinny pale pretty boy with a mop of reddish hair who writes with clarity and maturity but never says a word in class. I guarded myself against hoping for such a thing, but I've found the perfect sensitive boy in rural Nova Scotia. He seems to have been conjured into existence by a troop of adult misfits including Poppy Z. Brite and the members of Belle & Sebastian. It's amazing really. The Boy wonders if he should be jealous. "Yeah," I shot back, "what I've really been looking for all this time was a nice unspoiled 16-year-old. I hear the sex is amazing." Which just goes to show that I may yet have a spectacular decline into debauchery awaiting me, but it's not going to be through a liaison with a punk kid. That's just so slimy, darling. This topic is on every student teacher's mind, by the way. Petra has been talking about a boy in her class who seems to be a bit rebellious. In the lunch room, we talked about how far she was theoretically allowed to go. "You can't touch a student," I said, "but it's alright to write him little notes that you don't send, write his name and your name together -" "Put little hearts around it!" another student teacher interjected. "Then write out your name with his last name," I continued. " And it's okay to write out the guest list of your wedding and figure out what colour hair your children will be. Although he looks like he's got pretty dominant genes." At this point, Petra was in hysterics. "I'll just give him a perfect participation score," she laughed. My theory is that after 10 weeks of being around guys in the education department, she missed tough-guy, testosterone-based rebelliousness. I mean, I love the guys in education, but they're all pretty authority-identified. And speaking of which, I have an overdue library book that needs to go back. See you tomorrow - it's a parent-teacher day, but I'm too new to contribute anything, so I have the day off. Hooray! (I also pray for snow days. Is that unprofessional, do you think? All the teachers do it. And yet I wonder.)