Mommy and Daddy Were Teachers - What’s My Excuse?

I’ve been asking myself a question: Why do I want to teach the English language? Why do I like it, why do I seek it, but I never “degreed” in it?

I’ve never gone all the way.

Why did I decide, in the last decade or so of my life, that teaching English Lit, the stories that pour out, is something I want to keep doing?

I mean after all, there’s swing dancing.

Here’s a clue: My mother and father were teachers. It weighs upon me.

Bill and Elizabeth were very different kinds of educators. My father had a celebrated career, teaching linguistics at UCLA until his retirement. My mom, by comparison, came home from a substitute high-school gig in Pasadena one sweltering afternoon, and, using a word she’d never said in front me, gave her resignation speech: “A little girl in third-period English decided to take off her top and run around the classroom screaming, FUCK YOUUUUUUUU!”

Well, it was a hot day. I imagine Mrs. Bright both despised and envied her young charge.

My parents had very similar…