Teachers Talk

My fear was a quiet creeping thing,

Lingering round corners-

And in the tight upturned lips of teachers

Keeping me in line,

Separated from my peers in fear-

That when my actions were dutifully reported to my parents-

They would hear something there that they didn’t like

I am surrounded by teachers-

Always.

Teachers Talk.

And when your mother is not three doors down-

They talk about you.

When you get older,

And every teacher you’ve ever had,

Plays cards with

Drinks with

Your parents,

You can’t speak in class-

without your father knowing

You learn to shift,

To shed your skin between one class and the other,

Becoming the perfect student so there’s no reason to report.

Because, when you mess up-

Teachers Talk

They look at you different,

With suspicion,

Because they “know” you,

They hold you to a different standard.

I was once given a lower grade on an essay-

It was good she said,

Not good enough for you though.

Nevermind my brain had spent the past two weeks baking inside my skull,

She “knew” I could have done better.

Nevermind that I was stressed

And anxious

And tired

My friends were depressed

One of them was dying-

But I could have done better.

Because when Teachers Talk about you,

You are held to a different standard

​

After a point it becomes routine,

You find ones whose opinions don’t matter as much,

And you let out a little bit of the snark,

The dark humor you repress for the sake of others sensibilities because-

Because,

After a while you grow up.

You grow out of the ever-present need to impress and assure,

Disapproval isn’t as scary anymore in the face of those people,

Those people whose approval you wanted,

Wrecking the world around you.

Proving that they make mistakes too,

That they have no right to judge.

Teacher Talk,

But that’s all it is.

Talk.