Here's to you, Mrs. Hannigan

I have the honor of sharing the same last name with the always-inebriated orphanage manager Mrs. Hannigan from "Annie." It wasn't until I was already pretty hooked on Scott that I realized this coincidence and how annoying it would be for me, a future teacher at the time, to have classrooms full of children whining at me, "We love you, Mrs. Hannigan," like the orphans in the movie.

When I was student-teaching, I was fairly confident that children born in the late 90s wouldn't be familiar with "Annie" or anything I might have ever watched on a VHS tape (let alone know what a VHS tape is), and, therefore, I was safe from having them repeat that line to me.

Lucky me, I ended up being placed at the school that had just performed "Annie" as their winter musical.

It's not that I don't love my new-ish last name (I mean, it makes my full name so symmetrical: Jennifer Hannigan), but after a semester of having those students say that to me, and even having it frosted onto my going-away cake, I was happy that I might never have to hear "Mrs. Hannigan" again.

Wrong times two.

This fall I will be an adjunct instructor in the Harding's English department, teaching one section of English 111, otherwise known as Composition 1, to 24 freshmen/sophomores/lazy senior who waited until the last minute to fulfill this gen ed requirement.

Honestly I never thought I'd teach again. Although I had a funky little double cross beside my name in the graduation program indicating that I received my teaching licensure, implementing the powers of the double cross was not in the cards.

A little clip from my program

That little symbol tacked on a bit of practicality to my slightly impractical major. I mean, what do you do with a degree in English? Unlike other most majors, there's not a clear direction for that degree. There's further schooling, unemployment, or teaching with some truly golden opportunities sprinkled in there, convincing you an English degree is the way to go.

When I got my current job, it was as if the great saints of literature had thrown me a bone, giving me one of the few gems of a job where you write and get paid! Brilliant. That little teaching license found its way into a folder, in a box, in a closet. Buh-bye, teaching career.

It wasn't that I didn't want to teach. There was a little part of my brain where the want lived. It was very rewarding, passing on my love of something to my students, even if they didn't necessarily love it in return. It was just that, at least on that grade level or at that time in my life, it wasn't the goal.

In the same folder where my three-year teaching certificate is waiting to expire sits a handful of cards from each of the different sections of English I student-taught. Inside are little statements of love and encouragement (and even one phone number from a very delusional seventh-grade boy), wishing me well on my teaching journey. Re-reading these a little while ago, I felt a little bad — as if I had lied to those classes. They were all wishing me bon voyage on a journey I had little drive on which to go.

So, after two years of early teaching retirement (sort of like how Amanda Bynes retired from acting... for three months), I've decided there's still some kick left in me yet. Maybe I'll try this teaching thing after all.

Wish me (and perhaps the students I'm going to teach) a little luck. I'll probably need it.