Every so often, a wave of perfectionism will sweep over me. Since college, I have learned to roll with "it" (whatever "it" may be at the time) and ride out the waves in collectedness. Yet sometimes I find myself reverting to my own ways. The ways where I think that I control every outcome. Where I determine whether my life has been successful thus far. Where I wish to mold myself into some sort of Super Woman with the ability to be ridiculously fantastic/successful.
Shortly after finishing Divergent, I was astounded to learn the author wrote the book when she was 24 years of age. TWENTY FOUR! I realize that I am not 24 (yet), nevertheless, a strong feeling of inadequacy overwhelmed me. What have I done so far? Better yet, what am I doing? I assure you that I am not writing the next great dystopian novel. Playing BINGO with seventh graders is more like it.
But I guess part of being a teacher is remembering the lasting effects you can have on any child at any moment. Perhaps one of my seventh graders will remember my lesson on literary devices as he/she writes a celebrated novel. That would be pretty fantastic.
P.S. Please read Divergent. It's a little on The Hunger Games side, but more mature, and a teensy tiny bit more "cool." Whatever I mean by that.
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