>Teacher, Teacher

I’ll admit I’ve had the occasional fantasy of being a high school teacher.

As I imagine it, my charisma combined with my passion for literature would inspire former hooligans to spout Shakespeare in the hallways and go on to attend Ivy League schools. “Oh Captain, my captain,” my students would declare to me with their hands over their hearts, standing on their desks one by one in the warm golden light filtering in through the windows of my hardwood-floored classroom.

At the end of my career, hundreds upon hundreds of former students would show up to give me a ten-minute standing ovation in the school auditorium. Famous authors would be among their ranks, along with philosophers, poets, politicians and even a movie star or two (one of whom would have referred to me on Oprah as his greatest inspiration, at which point, I’d be brought out from the wings to surprise him with a big hug).

That’s how it all plays out in my mind. According to my stepdaughters, though, the reality is far different from what I’ve imagined.

“Would anyone in here like to be called by a different name from what’s on my roster?” my 16-year-old’s English teacher asked this past week. One girl raised her hand.

“My name is Tia, but I go by TJ,” she said.

“Okay,” the teacher agreed, writing ‘TJ’ down beside Tia’s name.

“I go by Lo Down,” a boy called out. The teacher gave him a weary look.

“I’m not going to call you that,” she said.

“Well, I go by K-I-C” said another boy.

“I’m not calling you K-I-C,” the teacher said irritatedly.

“Why not?” he pressed. “My friends call me that. My parents call me that.”

“Those aren’t even the initials of your name,” the teacher said. “I’m not going to call you K-I-C.”

“Well, I go by E.D.,” said a boy named Ed.

“Stop it,” the teacher said. “We’re not discussing this any more.”

“Well, it’s not fair to call me TJ,” the first student piped up. “Not unless you’re going to use these other names, too.”

“Fine,” the teacher said. “I’ll call you Tia.”

“Fine,” the girl said, crossing her arms.

“Fine,” the teacher said.

This is just one of dozens of similarly ridiculous conversations my teenager has told me about occuring between teachers and students during her first few days of school. So much for my dreams of inspiring kids with my dry wit and expertise in all things Jane Austen. If the stories I’m hearing are any indication, my head will have exploded long before we get to our dramatic interpretation of Our Town.

On second thought, I think I’ll just stick to occasional viewings of Mr. Holland’s Opus.

This post originally appeared on Parents.com.