When I was in college, I didn’t want to be a teacher, even though I was studying literature and still thinking about going to graduate school to become a professor. I was going to be a writer, and teaching would be the thing that paid the bills.

That’s exactly what happened (except not the grad school part). I don’t know what I was so worried about. The other side of the desk is so much more fun.

Today, a grade 2 student asked why I wear glasses. I told her it’s because I can’t see. A grade 4 boy interrupted.

“But you were wearing different glasses last week!”

Last week, I was wearing my black frames. This week, I’m wearing my white frames. In his mind, these different glasses must have different purposes.

“It’s the same lens,” I explained, but I’m not sure they understood.

When I tell kids I can’t see, they think that means I’m blind. When I tell them how to pronounce a Spanish name, they think I speak the language. When I read the clock above my head in the reflection of the window, they believe I’m magic.