Day 18: Candles

You know it's bad when you find a scented candle hidden among the flour, oil, and breadcrumbs in your pantry. Can you see it?


I don't think I agree with the long-held theory that children believe their teachers live at school. If their idea of me is anything like my idea of the dentist (and I like the dentist), then it's not so much that I live at school as that I do not exist outside of school. That is to say, the only place that I have ever seen my dentist is at his office. I have gone to the same dentist for at least twenty years, and I've never seen him in anything but scrubs. I know he has children, but I've never seen them or even seen pictures of them. I imagine he lives in a nice house. I imagine he has hobbies. But I don't actually know anything besides that he is a nice man, a dentist, and that he has a lot of fillings for someone who spends the day talking about how to keep your teeth healthy. Sure, you would think that the fact that I've usually got some tool stuck in my mouth would mean that the conversation would center more on him, but not so. To me, he is simply a dentist. End of matter, case closed.

Children must look at their teachers in much the same way. Sure, they know a little about me. They know my full name, they know my favorite color (green), they know that my age falls somewhere in the 20 to 40 year-old range (because that's as specific as I'll be). They know my favorite word is defenestration (the act of throwing someone or something out of a window), and that I know a little something about football. A few of them have seen a member of my family at one point; a few others have seen me around town. But pretty much everyone has family members, shops at a grocery store, and goes to Mardi Gras parades. Really, all they know about me comes from our interactions at school. I don't like whining or tattling. I don't give out candy, I can draw pretty good circles but not so straight lines, and I know a lot about math and science. There is usually at least one typo on every assessment I give, and I'm willing to hear them out as long as they're willing to respect my decisions. But none of that gives a clear picture of what I like to do. It's nothing like seeing me play kickball in gold tights, or run a meeting, or shoot the breeze with friends. It's nothing like seeing my messy room, or hearing me scream at a Saints game, or even reading this blog. It gives kids little idea of what a teacher is really like outside of school.

Then the end of the year rolls around, and it's present time. Despite the fact that they spend almost as much time with me each day as they spend awake at home, the kids are just as clueless as their parents when they choose teacher gifts. And what's the go-to gift for people you don't know? Candles. And not just any candles. Not the kind of candles you could decorate a table with or actually use on a birthday cake. No, scented candles. Like they assume that every teacher wants their (non-existent) kitchen to smell like green apples and pralines. As much as I don't, I hold on to them anyway. Sure, I've managed to re-gift a few along the way, generally to people whose extra-professional lives I find similarly mysterious, but mostly they find their way to a table, a stove top, a ledge, or a pantry (don't ask, because I don't know how it got there). I don't know who actually uses scented candles on a regular basis, but I hope they exist. I imagine they would be the same sort of people who buy cucumber melon body mist at Bath and Body Works and debate the merits of Linen Fresh versus Outdoor Fresh fabric softener. Like hunting dogs, they have extra powerful noses, and like carpentry shops, great fire insurance. Occasionally, I hope, they shop at Goodwill.