Never say never

"I could never do that."

Sometimes that phrase is a perceptive statement, a sign of self-awareness with only a little Better You Than Me thrown in. More often than not the honest translation is I don't want to, I hope to never, thank God that's not me, with the sign of the cross some trapped gesture in even thoroughly non-Catholic hands. At least it seems so to me.

I get that a lot, the I could never, thanks to my chosen profession, sometimes even before the speaker realizes my students aren't white. Sometimes even from other teachers. But that's fair enough; I don't want their jobs, either. One hundred fifty entitled American teens on my roster? Oh, no thanks. Really. I insist. I could do it, have the degree and the certificate and the capability, but aspirations? Never. As baffling as that is to the brass. From time to time someone looks at my surroundings and sees the ghetto, and what exactly does that tell me? Perhaps that I am in the right place if only because someone really needs to be there.

Today and tomorrow I have observers in my classroom. One English department emissary, part of some new grand plan, one aspiring teacher from the local university. Two attitudes, two sets of eyes, one set of vague anxieties. If the former persists with "I could never," it would almost be a compliment: that's right, buddy. I do something different, something you've never attempted, and a decent job at that. But if the latter comes out of her day thinking that same thought, oh, that might be a different story, one I may cringe to hear. She knows how it's supposed to be, but I know how it is. Once upon a time I thought "I could never," but now every day, I do.