I drove up to the school at 6:30 in the morning, tired as hell, with a San Andreas headache. I parked in the space, took two or three sips of my coffee, got out of the car, and headed for the entrance.

Northern Amsterdam County Regional High School.

There it was.

There I was.

I opened the door, threw my 24-ounce coffee in the nearest trash receptacle (thank you!) and went straight to my room. It wasn’t the first time I’d been in there this year…I had come in the previous week to get everything ready. The little things, like bringing in chalk or pens or posters or excellent projects from years past. But today was the first day of school. The day that teachers dread as much as students do. So much to do, so much damned responsibility. The board tells me that “These kids are supposed to learn about the history of the United States of America between the landing of Columbus in 1492 and the end of the American Civil War in 1865.” And then the school board’s voices get soft and sweet and dangerous. “And if they don’t learn it, then they’ll fail tests. And if they fail tests, it’ll make the parents angry. And if the parents are angry, they won’t vote for the school budget, and they won’t vote for us to get back on the school board.

“And if we don’t return to the board, Pryor, we’re taking you with us.”

“Oh, jeez, guys…”

I looked out my window and saw the buses. Homeroom would start in about twenty minutes. Twenty minutes before I had to face this year’s group of kids.

And that’s when I decided not to think about it anymore. I pulled out my now ancient MP3 and scrolled down the list until I found it.

If I kiss you where it’s sore, if I kiss you where it’s sore, will you feel better?

I closed my eyes.

Better, better, will you feel anything at all?

Regina Spektor’s Better. That had been playing that fateful night, after senior prom. I had my date alone with me in my dad’s BMW, and there we were, talking, drinking. The drinking was definitely there, more so than talking. And then kissing. And touching one another in the backseat, practically jumping up and down and banging our heads on the ceiling. And then…I don’t remember anything else. It’s extremely likely we had sex. And likewise likely that I had no condom. And likewise likely that she was not on the pill, because her parents were such Catholics. If they ever found her out about that night…it’s likely they’d kill her. And me too, while their rage was still palpable.

But why worry? I had heard nothing from her for all these years. She’d have at least written, or called, or demanded money or my paternal services or something, anything…so why bother myself with this meaningless beating at old events? You’ve only got another fifteen minutes to agonize about these new kids, these sixteen year olds, these wise but foolish sophomores.

There are a hundred new kids to understand, to know. They think I’m supposed to be some mixture of parent, mentor, friend, and plain teacher. Wrong, kids. I’m here to only to do the third, because that’s what the board says. Not too much fun now. Keep you in order. Give you an hour of homework a night. Let you bitch at me every now and then. And then I can bitch at you while I keep your sorry ass after school.

But I want to be intimate with these kids. I want to banter, joke, but let them learn. Because I love history. No one else seems to anymore, but I love it. Me, as a four year old, marching along with a Revolutionary War documentary. I don’t know how much sank in. But enough sank in that I knew about Cowpens and the tactically brilliant three lines and false withdrawals that gave the Continentals victory. And by eight, I could tell you all about Benjamin Prentiss and his performance at the Battle of Shiloh (by the way, he and his Ohioans held off Confederate assaults for hours on the Hornet’s Nest until Daniel Ruggles of the Confederacy brought in sixty-two cannon to blast the ammunition-less Federals from the position). By fifth grade, I could name all the signers of the Declaration of Independence. I was also helping my older brother do his Advanced Placement history homework around there too. And it only got more and more insane.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that history is part of me. I had always had a great memory, (I loved the CAT Test’s memory section: A lep is a ball, a merim is a young chicken, a hoyjet is a thick liquid…) and I had always loved books and novels and such. As far as I was concerned, history was a story. There were characters, there were climaxes, there were heroes and villains and adventurers and damsels and such and the events connect to other events. That’s all that mattered. One big never ending story. There was always more to find out. I only met two other people who felt like that (short of teachers) before college. And even then, the pickings were slim.

History was the subject that my friends had disliked the most throughout my schooling. It took a lot of effort for them to memorize all of the people and places and dates and such. They also didn’t see how history was going to help them. Truth is, I didn’t really know either.

Kid: Why do we have to know about the Federalists and Democratic-Republicans? It won’t help in later life or anything.

Me: Do you plan on graduating high school?

Kid: Of course.

Me: To graduate high school, you have to pass my class. And to pass my class, you need a sixty-five or higher for the year. And to get a sixty-five or higher for the year, you need to pass your tests. And you certainly won’t pass this test unless you know about the Federalists and Democratic-Republicans. Fair enough?

And that usually is enough to shut them up for a couple of months or so.

Kid: Why do we need to know about Millard Fillmore?

Me: Didn’t we have this conversation three months ago?

See?

Three minutes.

Me: God, why am I so anxious?

God: Didn’t you just have this conversation?