At 50+, I thought teaching creative writing to teens would be my reinvention moment. Instead, I found blank stares, slammed phones, and a harsh lesson in what really matters.

Here it comes, another verbal assault from a skinny, snarly 14 year old. “I’m not f*cking doing this sh*t!” he declared, tearing up his paper, scattering the pieces in the air. I was one month into teaching at an alternative high school—which I’d hoped would bring me new purpose at 50-plus.

Dreams of Dead Poets Society

What could be more satisfying to a midlife creative than inspiring young folks to explore their muse? As a former editor of teen magazines and a YA author, I still felt genuine affection for the age group. So I’d never actually taught before—no biggie! Surely it was in my blood. My mom was an inner-city high school teacher for three decades. I figured I’d face a few funny foibles before reaping Dead Poets Society-style rewards.

Yeah … no.

The World’s Fastest Job Interview

The morning I emailed my resume to the school’s director, she called to set up an interview—for that afternoon. I met with Danielle Brady*, a long-limbed 30-something with wide eyes that gave her a look of constant high alert. I nicknamed her Danielle the Gazelle.

In explaining the adjective “alternative,” the Gazelle spoke of how these poor kids had failed to thrive at their public schools due to bullying, anxiety, or parents who didn’t prioritize education. Heartstrings? Tugged! Then she got down to business: Classes met twice a week for an hour and 15 minutes. No homework. No tests. No grades. Students got credit for attendance, participation in discussion, classwork, and the completion of a midterm and final project.

Boom! I was hired. Either I was awesome or the Gazelle needed warm bodies.

A Course in Creativity

I had to develop my own curriculum—pretty damn quick, since the semester would start in 12 days—so I tapped into my novelist know-how. Facts, figures, formulas—borrrring! In Character Creation, we’d make stuff up! Invent our own heroes and villains and put them into original stories. We’d write, we’d draw, and in the process, we’d gain a better understanding of what makes people tick in real life.

I toiled away on lesson plans, all with “do now” exercises to get creative juices flowing. I printed out excerpts, a mix of classic and quirky authors to stimulate critical thinking. I researched character-driven film clips, comedy routines, and music videos to spark discussion.

“They’ll love it!” the Gazelle assured me.

Yes! Love! A wealth of love! Sweet, since the 25 bucks an hour I’d earn didn’t extend to off-campus work.

Talk About a Tough Crowd

On day one, they trickled in, a racially diverse group of seven boys and six girls, aged 14 through 19. None of them had notebooks. None of them had pens. Guess that’s why the school supplied lined paper and ballpoints. Gamely, I introduced myself and asked their names, checking them off on the attendance sheet.

“Hey, nice to meet you,” I said, totally chill, so as not not to come off like a nerd. “Will you put up your phone, please?”

I hadn’t girded my loins for this. Surrendering their cells was one of the school’s few rules. Was this a Civil War battlefield? From the chorus of agonized protests, you’d think I was performing amputations, sans anesthetic.

Whatever, I could finally start the lesson. Instead of desks, tables were arranged in a convivial U shape. Standing in the center, I launched into my spiel about the power of imagination, ideas, and language.

In return I got blank stares. Some students carried on giggly conversations with each other. One girl put her head on the desk and fell asleep.

Hmm. I asked about their interests in books, movies, TV. They claimed not to have any. Was I expecting Masterpiece Theatre? No, but maybe The Simpsons.

I approached one by one: “So, what do you like to do?”

“I dunno. Nothing…”

“Oh, come on! Nothing?”

From behind my back, someone snickered, “Smoke weed!”

Aha! Common ground! Could’ve used a hit myself about then.

In comedy parlance, I died up there. But I was determined to engage them. I rejiggered lessons. Collected photos from magazines as visual cues. Turned it into a game, with points for unique character traits. I pivoted more than a jewelry box ballerina. Basically, I obsessed.

At home, none of my mom’s needs (I’m her live-in primary caregiver), or those of my husband or cats, went unmet, but I probably wasn’t the most pleasant person to be around. As to my own writing—my journalism, my involvement with the local open-mic scene? Abandoned.

That made me sad. Also, a bit resentful. As a teen, I constantly filled page upon page, sketching and scribbling my heart, mind, and soul out (when I wasn’t dabbling in sex and drugs, that is). These kids had zero use for their own imaginations. Thanks, 21st century, for convincing young people it’s okay to let their phones think and feel for them. Yet here I was, devoting myself to them while my “art” languished.

Was I Alone in This?

School wasn’t entirely awful. There were some nice surprises: Akeelah’s police detective, who fell under a witch’s spell. Jaxon’s dirt biker superhero—the leader of a squad that rescued stray dogs. Three boys’ collaboration on a pirate adventure with lots of swashbuckling lingo. Only it was like pulling teeth. Every. Single. Time.

Joelle Mackey, a super-fit strawberry blonde in her mid-50s, had taught social studies in a traditional public high school. Three children, one divorce, and 26 years later, she was back at the blackboard (except they’re white boards now). “After raising my kids, I found myself on a ‘what’s next?’ quest,” she told me. “I became a certified Pilates instructor and I love it—but something was missing. I realized I longed to get back into the classroom.” Satisfaction, alas, was not guaranteed: “It’s the apathy that gets to me,” Joelle confided. “I just can’t motivate them. Not because they don’t understand, but because they don’t seem to care.”

Knowing that a seasoned teacher was similarly challenged soothed me some. So, while I counted the days until the end of the term, I gritted my teeth and did my best, which is all I know how to do. And (sucker!) by then I truly cared about these kids, even the brattiest of the bunch.

Lessons … Learned?

Now it’s summer—the beach, my bike, a trip to the mountains. Most crucially, I reconnected with my muse, pitching this essay to PROVOKED, hitting my favorite open mics with a few new poems. I felt overall relief and creative renewal, but I also felt like the “F” word. No, not that “F” word. I felt like a failure.

What, if anything, had I done wrong? After all, I worked my butt off for those kids. Part of the problem, apparently. “People who hold themselves to very high standards can set themselves up for disappointment,” life coach Katrina McGhee, author of Taking a Career Break for Dummies, told me. “Sometimes it’s better to have more reasonable expectations—of the situation and of yourself.”

Interestingly, that was Joelle’s epiphany. She’s already decided to teach next term; in fact, she’ll take on two classes. “I definitely tried too hard,” she admitted. “Now that I know the kind of kids I’ll be dealing with, I’ll be easier on myself, which I hope will make it easier on them.”

My mom might have made a similar decision. Consider her numbers: 35 years, five days a week, five periods a day, 30 kids per class in one of NYC’s roughest neighborhoods. Not to mention an Abbott Elementary-worthy assortment of kooky coworkers and twisted administrators. Yet my mom loved her job—perhaps the hardest job on the planet.

Only here’s what teaching taught me: It isn’t my job. I write. Always have, always will. It’s what I love. Sure, it would’ve been great to nurture the next Tolstoy, or at least Liane Moriarity. Yes, I’m disappointed that it wasn’t meant to be. I expect the Gazelle to call in mid-August (silly me, I invited her to) and ask if I’ll return for the fall semester. With a heavy heart and as politely as possible, I’ll give her the big hell no.

I learned my lesson.

Have you tried to reinvent yourself only to get smacked with reality?