When I introduced myself to the fourth-graders that morning, I said, “Hi, I’m Dr. Lynch.” Not Mr. Lynch. Not the substitute. Doctor. Later, a kid approached me holding up his thumb and asked, “Dr. Lynch, is this broken?” I muttered that I had a PhD in biological anthropology and that I wasn’t a medical doctor. He stared at me blankly. I told him it wasn’t broken.

Substitute teaching pays US$160 a day in North Carolina. The good assignments are the ones where the teacher leaves a worksheet, the kids are mostly on their laptops or phones—because who cares when you’re a sub?—and you can quietly write or apply for jobs.

Fourth graders are usually a pretty good gig, but they’re not always the easiest. They’re sweet and they burst onto the playground at recess as if released into their natural habitat, making games out of nothing with rules that invent themselves. They still haven’t figured out that having a substitute is a license to screw around and they keep wanting to talk to you and asking questions. School hasn’t beaten the curiosity out of them yet and this is all great unless you’re trying to finish a book proposal. At lunch I learned that there would be an assembly in the afternoon. Perfect. I’d hide in the empty classroom and write.

Before going any further, I should mention that I hate dancing. It’s probably my single biggest fear. I get tight and self-conscious, and I start to sweat. I imagine that everyone is looking at me, which they probably are, because I suck at it and look like a fool. I also hate forced goofiness. Some people are naturally up for anything, footloose and fancy-free. My motto in life is closer to Groucho Marx’s—“Whatever it is, I’m against it.” My wife bought me a shirt that says, “You’re not my mom. You can’t tell me what to do.” Before you have even finished stating your opinion, I am forming a rebuttal—“That’s not quite right.” In improv terms, I am the opposite of a yes-and-er. I am a no-but-er.

After lunch, just as I was opening my laptop to write, a teacher came in to tell me that I needed to come to the gym. The teachers were playing a volleyball game. “I don’t really play volleyball,” I said, and then added (as if this clarified something important), “I play tennis.”

Outside the gym, another fourth-grade teacher was wearing a blue tutu. She handed one to me and suggested that when our team was announced, the three of us should run out onto the gym floor like we were fly fishing—casting and reeling imaginary rods. I looked behind me for a way to get to the parking lot, drive home, and tell my wife that I didn’t have time to sub anymore because I was now a professional writer who had 187 followers on Substack—five of whom pay me. But by then the hallway had filled with children, the principal was standing near the door, and the other teachers were already grinning with the earnestness of joiners who thought this would be a great time for everyone.

This was around the time I decided to start bragging about my PhD. While the fourth-grade teacher I had just met was adjusting her tutu, she asked if I had subbed there before. “Not really,” I said. “I’m mostly writing now.” She made the mistake of nodding politely, which I took to be an invitation to elaborate. “I’m actually writing a book,” I added, just to make sure she didn’t think I was journaling or something. I was about to explain that I am also a scientist, that I have a PhD in biological anthropology—not cultural anthropology, which is not even a science really—when someone shouted over the sound system, “Fourth-grade teachers!”

How All My Politically Correct Bones Were Broken

In my first 10 years of college teaching, from the mid-60s to mid-70s, I modeled myself on my best teachers—men and women who questioned my ideas vigorously. They let me know that I mattered to them, they praised when praise was due, and they pushed me hard. Often I

QuilletteGregory Hansen

The three of us ran into the gym in our tutus, pretending to fish while 400 over-excited elementary-school kids screamed from the bleachers. I was still wearing my temporary sticker that said SUBSTITUTE, with no name on it. I scanned the first-grade section for my next-door neighbour’s daughter, Poppie, hoping she was sick. The only other man, the gym teacher, served first. The ball came directly at me. I lunged and missed. Like an airball but with my arm. I really wished I had brought my tennis bag. Not because it would have helped but because I could have placed it close enough to the court for everyone to know it was mine. Six racquets! A man doesn’t carry six fucking racquets in a Wimbledon bag unless he’s really good.

After a couple more spikes by the gym teacher I learned that the losers would have to dance in front of the whole school. I glanced at the exit and started to sweat even more. A few minutes later, I got another chance and smashed the ball into a second-grade teacher's face. There was a pause and I apologised. The children screamed and the gym teacher kept scoring. As the ball came toward me again, I had only one thought: If this were tennis, I would destroy him. We lost.

As I was walking toward the gym door, already peeling off my name tag, the principal stopped me. “You have to dance with the fourth-grade teachers,” she said. Then the Macarena started.

It was not the most humiliating moment of my life. That was after a whiskey tasting in 2009 at deCODE genetics in Reykjavík, Iceland, where I was completing my dissertation and ended up urinating into a fish tank. The next morning I was called into the office of Kari Stefansson, the CEO and founder—the only interaction I ever had with him—and instructed to apologise to all 900 employees. But this was a close second. I stood there in a blue tutu, drenched in sweat, surrounded by screaming children, awkwardly jerking my arms around in a pathetic approximation of a dance I had hoped to live the rest of my life without performing.

In the parking lot, I passed the gym teacher. I considered telling him I was actually a scientist. That I had a PhD. That I had published in serious journals. That I was writing a book. That I’d lived in New York, Finland, and Slovakia. That I had once made a lot of money on Wall Street (so what if I’d blown it on hookers and drugs). Instead, I opened my trunk, took out my tennis bag and pretended to look for something, hoping he might notice the six racquets. He didn’t.

Later, I found out that Poppie had seen the whole thing. She hadn’t noticed the tutu, or the missed serve, the second-grade teacher I’d hit in the face, or even the Macarena. She told her parents that her next-door neighbour was a professional volleyball player.