My Utopian Classroom

I'd be taller. Just like an inch or two. I don't know why.

We would sing and dance and rap and play games every day. There'd be sunshine (not too much) and birds singing (not too many) and a soft breeze (not too strong). My armpits would never sweat. I could wear basketball shorts every day and students would still take me seriously.

Students would take me seriously. They would hang on my every word. Like their life depended on it. Because it does. 

Every song I'd play would be perfect. Nobody would get distracted. Nobody would be offended. Nobody would need their own headphones. The music would never be too loud.

There would be no grades. No carrots. Just love. Desire. Hope. Patience. Water.

Students would love to read. And write. But not at first. Not too much. They would discover their potential in my class. Their success in school and in life would depend on my class. I want things to matter that much. 

I would be everyone's favorite teacher. But I wouldn't realize it until I was 70 and they all came back for my retirement party. A surprise party my wife put together. Even the mayor would be there. She was a struggling redhead only I could get through to. And my deaf son would finally understand me. (Okay, now I'm just describing Mr. Holland's Opus.) Then one day I would discover my opus.

And they would make a movie of my life. How I gave up everything to become a teacher. How I saved the world. In the movie, I would be better looking, funnier, smarter, kinder, and the director would get it all wrong. But it would make my parents cry.

I would know every student's name. I would never forget them. They would all be worth remembering and I would have enough room in my brain for all of them. They would all invite me to their weddings, but they wouldn't actually expect me to show up.
Oh, and my fridge would work.