Although I am not yet able to brazenly insult students, I can say that I have a good rapport with them. It's taken me a few semesters to find my voice, but I've become comfortable with my expectations for students and their expectations of me.
Perhaps it took me so long to find my balance because of my age. I'm about five years older than most seniors—it isn't much, but it's enough if I pretend it is. I make old lady jokes and reprimand them for making me feel like an old hag. It works.
Just as I gained a level of comfort, I was presented with a new challenge: This semester, I'm teaching some students who are older than I.
In many ways, my relationships with these thirty-somethings is unique—they consider themselves my co-conspirators, as we've both been out in the world, and the rest of the kids don't even know what they're up against.
But with one of these students, it's harder to find my balance. Andrea is thirty, and she's a good writer. But she wants to be better. So she seeks my approval, my advice. I'm happy to talk with her, but I feel like more of a colleague—a co-conspirator—than a mentor. I question my credentials: Really, what do I know about writing? It's one thing to teach 20-year-olds, but another to teach someone who's older, more experienced, more ambitious.
So in my moments of self-doubt, I do for her what I do for every other student: I answer her questions honestly and to the best of my ability.
