Throughout the years I’ve tried my hand at a number of occupations with varying amounts of success. Some jobs I enjoyed and didn’t mind the hour-long bus ride from my apartment in Lincoln Park to downtown Detroit. When I lived across from Belle Isle, I pedaled my bicycle 3 miles to the Renaissance Center where one summer I worked as a legal temp. Pulling files for Wayne County’s Civil Service Department kept me busy but bored for 13 months.

I’ve written restaurant reviews for a Wyandotte newspaper and miscellaneous articles for something called Phase II, a 1970s-era newspaper located in Detroit’s Greektown. I wrote speeches for U.S. Sen. Donald Riegle when I worked in his Detroit office. For six months, I sold computer programming packages. I’ve taught English Composition at the community college and university levels. I’ve been an Avon Lady, a stay-at-home-mom, a Bluebird leader, a volunteer popcorn popper at an elementary school, a hearing aid factory worker, a waterless cookware sales person, and for 15 minutes I was the events coordinator for the Lake Superior State Elders.

Although I never took an active part in the 1960s cultural revolution, it obviously influenced me. I simply couldn’t figure out what I wanted to do when I grew up, so I never did. Like a grasshopper, I jumped from one job to another, from this to that, never satisfied with anything until I became a full-time mom. However, that occupation isn’t a long-term one. When my daughter was a teenager, it was hard to justify why I was staying home, so I looked for work and got the shock of my life when I re-entered the workforce as a substitute teacher.

The only job I truly dreaded was working in the public school system. The most frightening, perilous, and least rewarding job of all is that of a substitute teacher, the very title of which is oxymoronic. There is no such thing as a “substitute” for the classroom teacher. There is only a babysitter. And forget the “teaching” part. The stand-in should be called a “target” and receive combat pay for the abuse endured.

When the yellow monster roared down my sideroad this morning, memories of my substitute teaching days roared through my brain. When I moved back to this area 30 years ago, I figured finding employment would be easy. After all, I was a crackerjack secretary and was armed with excellent letters of recommendation from various prestigious Detroit law firms. Unfortunately, no lawyer called me for an interview so I entered the working world as a substitute teacher. My experience may be atypical, but stepping into any classroom beyond the fourth grade was a living, breathing nightmare.

I had no idea how much things had changed since I graduated high school in 1965. In those days, major offenses were chewing gum in class or sailing a paper airplane across the room. Students were in trouble if they didn’t open their textbooks fast enough or stand when required to read from a geography book. Talking in class or study hall was unheard of, and there was no such thing as backtalk, disobedience, blatant rudeness, or actual threats aimed at the person trying to conduct the class.

No previous experience prepared me for the minefield I was entering. Perhaps my age was against me or my expectations were too high. Whatever the reasons, facing a room full of teenagers was intimidating. Maintaining classroom order was not difficult. It was impossible. Even the simplest requests like open your books, leave the lights on during a film, or stop throwing erasers at me were usually met with defiance. Sometimes sweet, well-mannered students apologized for the obscene behavior of their peers, especially when they heard the frustration in my voice or saw the defeated look on my face.

My last days as a pseudo teacher were the most trying. A teacher at a local elementary school requested I substitute for her on a long-term basis. Unknown to me, there was a power struggle between the teacher and her principal. The latter removed my name from the system, explaining she wanted “someone younger” teaching the class.

As the assistant superintendent put it when I complained, I was caught in the “meat grinder.” To pacify me and prevent potential age-discrimination litigation, I was called every day until the end of the school year. It didn’t take long to realize I should have sued and spared myself a whole lot of unnecessary aggravation.

Simultaneously, I was teaching English Composition at the college level. In one classroom I was seen as a dunce who couldn’t get a better job and in the other I was a respected professional. Such is the life of countless subs.

With a fresh academic year underway, I hope students take it easy on substitute teachers. Schools couldn’t run without them, and subs do the best they can under the circumstances. I realize I’m tossing a wide net because not all students are disagreeable. There’s just something about having a sub at the helm that brings out delinquent behavior in some of them.

If you can’t relate to this, close your eyes and imagine a zookeeper unlocking all the cages and setting the animals free or the movie “Animal House.” You’ll soon get the picture.

Editor’s note: Sharon M. Kennedy of Brimley is a humorist who infuses her musings with a hardy dose of matriarchal common sense. She writes about everyday experiences most of us have encountered at one time or another on our journey through life. Her articles are a combination of present day observations and nostalgic glances of the past. She can be reached via email at sharonkennedy1947@gmail.com.