My parents keep asking how school was. It's like saying, How was that drive-by shooting? You don't care how it was; you're lucky to get out alive.

Today as I sat in the gym, I was conscious in every moment of being a model. I began to slouch in an effort to find a comfortable position in the bleachers and immediately corrected myself, trying to be stick-straight and not do anything that could be construed as apathetic about what was going on. In my two freshmen classes, I stood at the front of the room and looked out at faces of sheer terror. Some of them tried to appear nonchalant and uninterested, but no amount of cool could dispel a tinge of fear. On the way to the assembly, a wisp of a girl with heavy black eyeliner and porcelain skin wandered through the glut of bodies in the hall as I locked my door. I asked if she needed help and she asked if I knew where her class was going and if she needed to sit with them. She looked in despair when I said I was sorry I didn't know, so I offered to let her stay with our group. She didn't leave my side until half an hour later when students were released to go home.

Last week during a faculty meeting where we were discussing working with at-risk students, the new Spanish teacher stood up to present his group's take on one of the approaches. I don't remember at all what the approach was that he was discussing. I only remember being aware that he seemed uncomfortable standing in a room of peers. The same as I would be, the same as I was when they asked me to stand so people could sing happy birthday to me this afternoon. As he spoke, he stammered a bit and lost his focus, and at some point he said "You know, these kids, it's hard. It's hard to deal with things, and they can get sad, can get depressed like we all do. I know I do. You just have to remember that when you talk to them." Those weren't his exact words, not in total, but the honesty he showed in that moment discussing what it was like not just to be a teenager, but to be a human stunned me. I saw other people get worried looks on their faces, wondering if this rambling man could get in front of the students and communicate effectively. But it made me try to remember what I had been like in high school. What it was that was tender in my core. The front that I tried to put on. I had a plush Winnie the Pooh backpack I'd gotten at Disneyland. And a Planet Hollywood jean jacket. I wore babydoll shirts and chokers. I was fiercely trying to both be an adult and demonstrate outwardly that I was cool enough to hold onto my childhood. Some act of reclamation that I wore along with heavy foundation and plum-colored eyeliner. Vanilla oil I bought at Spencer's Gifts in the mall.

I, too, was terrified. Jennifer Lynde was back at the high school and she looked as perfect as ever. Still with the beautiful long blonde hair and the gazelle-like body I was never destined to have. But with junior high an ocean between us, we weren't friends any more. My friends weren't cool. And I was mostly OK with that. I redefined what it meant and embraced the outsider status of being a choir person. I found a community there that sustained me for all four years. To the extent that it saddens me that there isn't much of a choir where I'm working now. Choir was how I traveled, how I went to other countries, forged bonds. It was where I found my best friends and so many important moments, good and bad. And it was crucial for me to have a place to be more than just the smart kid.

Several times today--standing in front of the occupied desks, walking through the empty halls with my coffee cup, struggling not to blush as the other teachers sang the birthday song to me in the library--I thought to myself, I am a high school teacher. I am a defense against apathy and insecurity, against boredom with the educational system. Even if my name and face are forgotten, what books, what shades of meaning do I want to remain?