Interviewing the Critic in My Head

Who are you?

I am your inner critic, that voice in your head. I often say things like “you're no good,” “you don't deserve to do well,” “it's not going to work out.”

How long have you been at it?

How long have you been alive? Forty-six years, although the first few years were rather slow. Things got busier when you started school, and interacted with other kids. That's really when you first started feeling different. That definitely opened the door for me, and gave me the opportunity to get going. Things like being an only child, being adopted, I can easily work with that stuff. It was easy to convince you that there were things wrong with you. You've given me lots of great material over the years. It's easy work, but also challenging at times. I like to keep old themes fresh.

What makes you happy?

Seeing you frown, hearing you sigh, knowing you'll give up. I feed off you.

You're telling me you're a parasite?

Oh no, no, not that. We are more, ah, symbiotic. There's no real separation.

Do you ever get bored?

Sure. How many times can I hear you say “I suck”? I thought you were good with words. Throw some synonyms up in here, bro. Then there are those times when you're really happy, like while riding your bike or playing music, or actually enjoying some intimacy. All these other committee members show up in your head. They are like annoying cheerleaders, and I can't compete with them.

What is your favorite time to work?

Oh, there's lots. When you're driving, when you're trying to fall asleep, when you first wake up. You start your day with me, not with your coffee.

What do you do when you're not criticizing me?

Research. I go back over your thoughts. I keep them very highly organized. I'm a bit anal-retentive, actually. If you're feeling good, I'll take the time to dig up some old stuff, things you may have forgotten, like when that sketchy guy yelled at you in the ShopRite parking lot. Remember that? You brushed aside his question. He called you an ignorant, arrogant m**********r?

I had forgotten about it until just now, thanks. Do you hate me?

No. We always hurt the ones we love. Without you, there is no me. I suppose a mental-health professional would call that co-dependent. Hey, we all have to eat.

What do you want from me?

Nothing but your time and attention.

What keeps you going?

Knowing that we've made it this far. It's fun to try to stay one step ahead of you. I like the challenge. I can't wait until your next date.

Are you an optimist or a pessimist?

Optimist, definitely. Things are getting better all the time—except for you.

Nice try. I call shenanigans. I'm not taking that bait in the middle of an interview. Do you ever get lonely?

Oh, sure. But I like being alone. You're an introvert, and that carried over to me. There's a difference between lonely and alone.

What's the most personal thing you're willing to admit?

Sometimes I feel bad for you. I really do. But you're that shiny red button that says DO NOT PUSH. You make it easy. I can't have just one potato chip... it's like that.

Do you define yourself by what you do?

Didn't I answer that in the first question? Here's another thing you suck at.

If you couldn't do what you do, what else might you do well?

Well, I'm a disembodied entity, so I can't enjoy arts and crafts. I dunno, I guess I could do a lateral move to another part of your mind. A job is a job. Are the cheerleaders hiring?

Any plans to retire?

Nope. I'd be bored out of my—uh, your—mind.

Critics

The critics in my head

are particularly vocal tonight:

an unruly sidewalk mob,

groundlings,gutter rabble, 

single-minded and strident, 

as my words try to push their way through,

catching elbows and feet every step.

What do they say? The usual:

None of this is going anywhere.

You were writing so much better

last year.

You're stupid, you put this on yourself

that you could do this--and for what?

What are you getting? No one really reads.

Oh, they might if you wrote something

worth a damn, not this drivel, no sir.

It won't always be like this, I tell myself.

Patience is the way out, the bully-beater

that will make them relent. Until then,

I will be their humble stenographer,

reporter and biographer, convince them that

their thoughts are pure genius,

totally new territory, profound

ideas expressed eloquently

and delivered with just the right

amount of force. Superb! Bravo!

Silver-tongued mastery!

I'll welcome them, catch them

off-guard with my flattery,

get them drunk on praise

and slip away from their

softened minds and do whatever

poetic thing strikes me:

observe the moon at five-minute

intervals; catalog the sounds

on the block, observe what happens

in six long breaths, find just the right

words for the shades of gray passing

overhead, read the dictionary aloud,

write imaginary dialogue for

people behind a cafe window,

order my espresso or pinot or stout

and sip slowly until the words come out.

Tragicomedy, Act 4 out of 5

Forget basketball. Ask anyone in this building--child or adult--and they'll tell you the true March Madness is going on within these walls.

March. What other month commands in such strident fashion? I mean, please. "May" is much more gentle. May I? But it's not here yet.

We've been teaching full weeks since the end of February break. That conference day we were supposed to have last Friday? Well, thanks to that ice storm a while back, it was a regular school day. Kids and teachers crankier than usual. Mostly--I'll get to that in a minute.

The dark clouds hovering over the faculty room have taken on a particularly bruised, angry hue recently. The rants are familiar: students with poor attendance/word choice/fashion sense/grooming habits/sentence structure, etc. Parents who don't care or--worse--actively enable behavior that works against us. Administrators who clearly don't understand What It Is That We Do. Deadlines. Piles of papers.

And, of course, this is a good time for everyone to get their schedules for next year. I'm teaching a level I've never taught before, and I'm doing another course I seem to get every few years or so, thus preventing me from establishing any kind of rhythm. (Those who are not teachers will vouch that such changes keep me fresh.)

Cranky. Cranky. Cranky.

Yes, I said to my colleague. But predictable. So predictable. How would the review go? The cast obviously knows their parts inside and out, and all deliver their lines with passion and verve, but the plot is a bit hackneyed, reducing the characters to flat stereotypes: the teacher martyr, the spoiled sophomore princess, the boy who throws worms and stuff, the text-addled junior with her hands constantly in her purse or her lap, the barking administrator.

Yawn. There's something better nearby... There's life outside these walls, even in that courtyard just outside my classroom window, where things actually grow. The grass will soon be lush and green, and gentle breezes will surely, um, stir the darling buds of... May. (Forgive me. I've read that sonnet too many times.)

See the humor in it, I enthused to my patient colleague. The deus ex machina, even. Invisible strings are tugging at us. We ARE reading scripts, and this is a restless falling action, hopefully leading to some sort of cathartic denouement: papers graded, boards washed clean, exams bundled neatly, students reduced to GPAs and class rank. Me, caught up for the first time all year. Yes, but we are stronger than those strings.

We can improvise. We must.

Another trusted colleague and I fall back on our favorite rhetorical question that gets us out of this rank-and-file March: "What's really important?" Well, it sure isn't the duct tape on the faculty room carpet. It's most definitely not the Regents exam. And no way is it the faculty meeting agenda.

March is gone. March on? Nah. Amble, sidle, sashay, and remember what's really important.

The tyranny of the test

I proctored part one of the English Regents exam today. Three hours of ennui, perched on a desk, while the entire eleventh grade (and a few seniors, for good measure) slaved away. Too bad they won't get to take part two tomorrow, due to the major whuppin' Mother Nature is about to dish out. (My school is notorious for snow days. I'm surprised the call hasn't come tonight.)

Anyway, to stem my boredom during such proctoring assignments, I occasionally jot down poems to pass the time. Like this one, about a fictitious student:

Her head on the desk,
energy drink by her side--
irony's portrait.

Or this one, which indicates that my mind has wandered a couple of calendar pages and a few miles further into the country:

A country road: bikes
on parade as blossoms fall--
nature's confetti.

The longer I teach, the less I believe in tests... Let's call this "Part 1 of 2":

Snow tomorrow--this
exam won't count. Dig those holes,
then fill them back up.


There. I feel better. Hey, don't argue with nature. Happy hibernating.