2.1

Shortly after the last school year ended, I filled in at a camp for a week. During the first day, I was surprised to find that I couldn't shape my mouth into a convincing smile. Apparently, those muscles had atrophied slightly during my year as a teacher. I didn't like Miss Craggett much last year. I determined that I would create a teacher persona that I liked or I would get out of the classroom before I became the epitomized mean old teacher.

This year, my risk is even greater. Students in Mexico do not address their teachers by their first names. Hence, I am "Miss Courtney." This terrifies me a bit. I no longer have the safety of dichotomy. Last year, Miss Craggett was one person, and Courtney was another. This year, though, I'd better make myself happy with Miss Courtney, because there's no getting away from her.

For these first few weeks, though, I'll be the mean old teacher. I need to develop a healthy fear in those 54 little rascals before we start having fun.

Although I am teaching the same grade and race as my students back in Texas, the differences are drastic. Last year I was teaching poverty-stricken immigrant children. This year, my students are members of Mexico's elite. They arrive to school with body guards and nannies. They have personal tutors. They know they are important. Many of them have fair skin, and the boys' hair is long and wavy and looks professionally cut. When asked what they wanted to be when they grew up, my students last year produced answers like "soccer player," "teacher," and "construction worker." Although this years' group had its fair share of hopeful soccer players and teachers, I also had answers like "doctor," "architect," "marine biologist," "zoologist," and "pathologist." I was impressed that they knew those terms.

If my first inklings are correct, this is going to shape up to be an interesting year.