On Being a "Mystery Reader"

So much happens during a "mystery reader" engagement; you're drowning in stimuli. Each child is at the center of a compelling, high-octane drama. The one with sensory issues has his hands over his ears, the little sibling with aching gums has bright red cheeks and occasional convulsions (from the sobbing).

A dreamy boy has a memory of playing outside, in the winter; the lesson screeches to a halt as this boy gets lost in his reverie. He is curiously detached from his audience; sentences begin, and meander, and trail off. His voice becomes inaudible. Listless peers stick their fingers in their noses.

Two little girls have their shit together (it's generally the girls). They have answers at the ready. They want the train to keep chugging, chugging, chugging along.

This year, I chose to read "A Home in the Barn," mainly because we could all sing "Old McDonald," at the end, and we could become various farm animals. The suspension of disbelief is thrilling; you just *are* a doggy, because you have announced that you're a doggy.

At the same time, I'm so happy not to be doing this on a daily basis.

My "career coach" wants me to "journal" about past "work experiences" that have "brought joy." It's not a great sign that I can't write about this person without deploying scare quotes--again and again and again. What I notice is that I feel deep ambivalence; my default mode is to be home, in front of a heater, reading and writing, but if I don't get out into the world, then I have nothing to write about.

Noting this is progress, I guess. I have a few more meetings on the horizon.

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