[This week’s guest blogger is Dan Meyer, a 21-yo student teacher from Sacramento who believes his tall frame will save him from this forthcoming school year.]
If you ever plan to be a student teacher, I can’t emphasize enough how important it is that you be six feet seven inches tall. Taller’s fine, but don’t you dare come up even a picometer short. When they ask how tall you are (and they will ask), tell them you’re seventy-nine inches tall and watch them freak out trying to work the math.
Walk around the outdoor campus, but don’t smile, don’t let your face betray anything. Let your height, your posture, do the talking. Your height says you’re strong, not the sort to be pushed around or screwed with. It says you’re going to run this class like a small nation and you’re not gonna let up until their GDP is up there with the U.S. of A. [kinda dating yourself there, brah â€” ed.]
(Only half true, in my case, but please don’t tell the kids, okay?)
I was introduced as “Mr. Meyer” in second period — the algebra class I’ll be taking over in mid-October — but nobody believed it. We played a People Search game where you find someone who’s gone to Fiji, or has a twin, or aspires to interstellar travel. When they came to me for this or that, I told them to write down “Mr. Meyer” (“no s, two e’s, if you please”), but no one bought it.
So, in third period, when the punked-out cheerleader said, “Mr. Meyer, I didn’t get a handbook,” I was so taken aback I almost vomited. I mean, I may never forget this, the very moment I became my father.
You want weird? Weird is calling people twice your age by their first names but insisting that people four, maybe five years, your junior call you “Mister”. Fairly freaking, creepy-ace weird.
But I’m still a fraud, be sure of this, and there’s little doubt I’ll be arrested soon.