In my second year teaching, I was 26 years old. One of my seventh-graders who drove me particularly crazy was a bright, creative, fantastic writer who was witty beyond his years, had a wisecrack for everything I said in class and hated to do his homework. I was exactly twice his age at the time, and he wasn’t one to let me forget it. At some point in the year, he affectionately dubbed me “Older Than Dirt,” which he eventually abridged to just plain “Dirt.”
“What up, Dirt?” he greeted me one day when he entered class.
“Good morning, Jared,” I said. “Come on in and have a seat.”
“Thanks, I will,” he replied. “You should probably take a load off, too. All that standing around all day must be hard on the old knees.”
“Nevermind my knees. Take out your homework. You DID do your homework last night, didn’t you?”
“Oh, that. Well, I’m not a fan of all that writing. Carpel tunnel, you know. Not to mention, one of the leading causes of arthritis. I’m sure someone your age knows all about these things.”
“JARED! Twenty-six isn’t THAT old,” I insisted. “I won’t even be thirty for another four years. That’s nearly half a decade!”
“Wow,” he marveled. “Did you just do that in your head? How do you keep your math skills so sharp? You must do crosswords.”
I’d like to wish my former student Jared Look a happy, healthy and non-arthritic twenty-sixth birthday.