I accidentally swore in front of my class yesterday. I intended to say 종이 똑같다, but I got the consonants shuffled around, and the students went wild. I was doing this thing I do where I keep a score for myself in addition to for their teams (awarding myself outrageous bonuses if, for example, no student gets a correct answer), so I went ahead and recorded a −20 in my column, which placated them.

I did something else new: Often, when a student is struggling with a problem, a smart one will try to “help” them by just translating the whole thing or telling them the answer straightaway. But yesterday, I saw one of my students taking great patience and care in assisting another, guiding him with strategic hints but never revealing the full solution—thinking, in other words, like a teacher. I used our school messaging app to write a memo to his homeroom teacher, letting her know it was cool to see his initiative, and she thanked me for noticing.

While there’s only so much I can do overnight to correct my awkward mannerisms and sheepish demeanor around the office (I am the least experienced!), written communication seems like a good way to maintain a sense of connection with the faculty and compensate for my frequent mistakes.

This level of investment.

Although I still play things rather selfishly about my office hours and study time, and although I often advise overworked friends to cultivate a sense of detachment from their work, I notice myself caring more and more about this job. Every time my patience is worn thin by a tough class and I start to acquiesce to the thought that teaching must just not be for people like me, something beautiful happens, my heart melts a little, and I get excited for the next day again.

  • Concept: What am I hesitating about, if I already know I’m happy?
  • Concept: What if (as Pete Buttigieg likes to say) this is a local minimum?
  • Concept: It’s too early to tell.