Theft by Finding - David Sedaris

If any of the children in my building got a goldfish, the excitement would come from watching it
twist to its death on the gas burner, but these kids were genuinely innocent. It was like a first-grade
primer, a chapter titled “The Goldfish Excitement.” I return on Monday and look forward to it.
October 3, 1988
Chicago
At the departmental potluck, I kept my mouth pretty much shut, afraid that if I spoke, everyone
would realize that I don’t know what I’m talking about. Not that I didn’t ask a few questions. A couple
of teachers talked about throwing people out of their classes—troublemakers. Their talk made me
realize the subtle ways I’m being taken advantage of by certain students. I’d been looking for the
criminal with the livid scar on his face and all the while I’d been getting my pockets picked.
M., the independent-study kid I picked up last week, is a liar and a poor student. I shouldn’t have
let her in after the third week, and allowing it has marked me as a teacher chump. Teacher chumps get
a reputation, as do easy teachers. Come next semester, your class is full of lazy people expecting just
to coast along.
October 5, 1988
Chicago
I’ve been taking great joy in grading papers. My evaluations are typed and, for me, startlingly
honest. I read them over late at night and am frequently struck by how mature and wise they sound. “A
child raised in a violent sexual environment should know at least three different terms for a dog’s
balls, and ‘thingofabobs’ is not one of them.”
I write what works and what doesn’t. I don’t want to embarrass anyone in class or tamp down
discussion, so the notes are just for the students.
Today in my box I got J.’s story. It ran one and a half pages and was followed by a P.S.: “My
typewriter ran out of ribbon and it’s pretty late.” Another student, C., gave me torn half pages that
were written in the cafeteria, probably while he was having a conversation. Last week he seemed
interested, but this week he comes to class without his book and sits there looking mean and bored.
October 24, 1988
Chicago
I met with a woman named Betty who owns a three-flat on North Kenmore and would like to have
one of the apartments painted. Someone started the job a few weeks ago but was fired for laziness.
Asked to remove the hardware and spray it with gold paint, he left the hinges and doorknobs in place
and spray-painted them anyway. It looks beautiful, much better than it would have if he’d followed
directions. It’s like the knobs are spreading good cheer to the comparatively sober white doors.