I immediately had a panic
attack. Professionally, I present in
front of hundreds of people each week.
But a room of second-graders?
They are a tough crowd, especially when your job can’t be defined in one
word. Teacher, fireman, nurse - they
understand these jobs, but Regional Vice President of an investment management
firm? Most adults don’t understand my
job, let alone second-graders.
The Saturday before my
classroom gig, Ethan had a sleep-over with one of his friends. While I was making pancakes for them on
Sunday morning, the friend asked what kind of job I had and presented me the
perfect opportunity to practice my spiel.
“Well, I work in
investment management, which means I help people who have extra money in the
bank make more money.” I was pleased
because it was simple but not dumbed down.
The boy nodded politely
while I spoke, so I thought it went well.
“Wow, that’s really… BORING. Let
me tell you what my father does, because it is a lot of fun…” I was deflated, but had to agree that his
father had a much more exciting job, working as a display designer for museums.
The next Monday I showed
up at Ethan’s classroom. He clutched his
favorite Percy Jackson book, eager to show everyone, as we went up to the front
of the room. All I could think was
“please don’t ask me what I do”.
The kids kicked it off by
asking Ethan about his favorite toys, what sports he played, and his favorite
books. They then proceeded to discuss
which Percy Jackson book was the best, which characters were their favorites
and the distinction between reading the books yourself and having your mom read
them to you. I checked the clock. Ten minutes to go.
Someone asked Ethan about
his pets. “Well, I have two dogs, Pickle
and Sweet Pea. We used to have three
cats but two died from old age and we gave the other one to my aunt. Oh, yeah, and we had a fish that committed
suicide.”
A little blond girl in the
front row looked confused, “What is suicide?”
My parental instincts went
into overdrive, thinking how to handle this discussion delicately, but Ethan
replied in a matter-of-fact tone, “Suicide is when someone kills themselves.”
Her face became pale and
she looked sick. “How did the fish kill himself?”
Ethan warmed up to his
topic. “It was so cool. He jumped out of
his bowl, and landed on the kitchen floor.
We didn’t even notice it until the next morning, when Dad almost stepped
on him because he looked like a dried-up leaf.”
He hit a vein of interest
with the other seven-year-old boys in the class, who responded in kind. “I had
the same thing happen with my fish.” “It was a Beta fish, right?” “I had a baby
turtle that someone stepped on by accident. It was disgusting. I really miss that turtle.”
The little blond girl in
the front row looked like she was going to start crying, and I knew her mother
was going to wonder what happened in class today. Maybe I would get a call from the mom tonight but
selfishly, I was relieved that my job was much less interesting than Percy
Jackson or fish suicide.
