So many things to talk about! And everything having to do with others, not me. Friends and neighbors, mostly. Conversations I’m itching to record (and share here, but why? Because my personal notebooks are messy and devolve too quickly into a spiral of self-inspection, getting narrower and narrower the more I write. Which gets boring). Is it ethical? But then, is anybody going to read this anyhow? If a conversation (monologue) takes place in a woods and no one is around to hear it, did it happen?

Maybe just a little scratch.

K1. is a teacher and sits on the state’s “court,” which means she and eight others spend one day a month hearing testimony from teachers who’ve run afoul of the education board. A few days ago a teacher was on trial for multiple DUIs, all issued during the year just after her abusive husband left her. It went to criminal court and she was placed under house arrest. She’d never been a drinker before this, and she hasn’t had a drink since the third and final DUI.

“And have you told your students what you did?” the prosecutor shouted.

“No.”

“Why not? You’re supposed to be a role model!”

Huh.

Good morning, children. No, no, we’re not doing vocabulary yet. Adam, do you need a tissue? Remember we talked about where our fingers belong? I’d like to talk to you all about something. Janie and Timmy, please stop whispering and pay attention. There’s something that you, my beloved and exasperating eight-year-olds, need to know about me. You see, I’ve been pulled over while driving drunk and given a DUI. What’s a DUI? Umm, okay, thank you, Billy, for sharing that about your dad but let’s leave it at that. So yes, class, Billy explained it well. I got three of these DUIs over a few bad months. Simon, please sit still. And I’ve been on house arrest ever since. And in therapy, which is helping me immensely. If you want to read all about it, ask your parents to pull up the transcript of my trial at the education board. The prosecutor insisted I go into details. Remember those bruises I used to have and I told you I fell while I was rollerskating? Well, I don’t roller skate, I don’t even own a pair of roller skates. I got hurt because my husband hit me. That’s right, Gerard, thank you for reminding us that boys should never, ever hit girls. And that’s true for you girls, too, you should never hit boys. Basically none of you should be hitting anyone. Why did my husband hit me? That’s a good question, children, but I don’t know the answer. I’ve been in therapy this whole school year trying to figure things out. Why didn’t I leave after the first time? Was it low self-esteem on my part? Am I chronically attracted to men who abuse? Do I send off some signal to attract them? And why did I spin out of control when he left me? Shouldn’t I have been happy? Which I was, children, I don’t want to confuse you, I was thrilled that he was gone but also terrified at the same time. My world was turned upside-down. My kids were angry with me because they didn’t understand why he left. And he wasn’t paying child support. I love my job teaching but it’s not exactly lucrative. What’s “lucrative”? Well, I’d say most other professions, like being a doctor, a lawyer, an engineer. Oh, sorry, you meant what does “lucrative” mean? Well-paid. Anyhow, the prosecutor wanted to make sure you all knew about my depravity before he “yanks” (his word, gleefully uttered multiple times) my license and I lose the right to teach you. He also made the video of my arrest public. He’s looking out for your welfare, children. Let’s think of this as a teachable moment. What happens when trauma drives us to do something stupid and reckless? That’s right, children. We will be arrested, serve our sentence, and, if we’re a teacher, meekly submit to public scrutiny of our innermost demons in the scant hope that we’ll be allowed to continue teaching before that hope is dashed and our license is revoked forever. Oh, and a little vicious verbal bullying by the board-appointed “prosecutor.” Please take out a piece of paper. Time for our spelling test. This will be the last one before your new teacher takes over.