My throat was sore, I was exhausted, and my legs were killing me. I don’t recommend anyone doing what I did this past week, certainly not at my age: teaching high school for one day.
I returned to New Rochelle, New York, where I had taught English at my alma mater from 1969 to 1978. I had to teach one more day in order to satisfy a new state requirement for earning the pension I had failed to collect almost 35 years ago.
I already had a history of a few other failures at that school, although history was not one of them. In those days, in order to graduate you needed 20 credits. I asked my guidance counselor if I had enough, and she said, “All you need is five a year, do the math.” That was the problem: I couldn’t do math, which is why I was two credits short.