ACTRESS

I wake up at 5 a.m. every day, but I don’t move until 6:30. I’m not sleeping. I’m just lying there, eyes closed, wondering if this is really my life—because honestly, I don’t want to live like this. I begged God for this job, and now it feels like a dementor, sucking all the happiness out of me.

I complain about this job and tell everyone who’s listening that I’m going to quit, all while preparing the uniform I have to wear. I don’t like this job, but it saved me from falling into depression—and honestly, it pays for all the skincare products I buy.

I walked nearly 30 minutes from our house to the office, blasting Nicki Minaj just to drown out the voices pushing me to quit. I’m not taking their advice—not today.

When I arrived, I saw the coaches first—the ones who’ve stayed five years or more. They were dressed in black. I was in white. A simple division, telling anyone who looks how long you’ve been in service.

The first thing I do when I arrive—even before putting my bag down—is clock in. This is the most crucial part. Then I check my schedule. Before, when I was new, maybe during my first week, I always checked how many performing acts I was going to do. Now, I only check what lessons I’ll be performing for each class. I always have a full schedule, and the only break I get is the mandatory one from the Department of Labor. And of course, I quietly pray for this—that a student might be absent.

Then I go to my locker, saying goodbye to the outside world as I turn off my phone.

I’ll do sixteen classes because I’m paid to. And yes, it’s exhausting. People like to say, “You’re just sitting for eight hours—why are you tired?” True. I’m sitting for eight hours. Sitting so long that my tailbone and the chair are basically best friends now.

I love talking. Anyone in my family would tell you that. I’m Donkey from Shrek. Talking doesn’t tire me—performing does. Every time I walk into a classroom, I look at myself in the mirror and check my smile, making sure I look happy. I can’t let them see that part of me that wants to run away. And maybe I can’t run, because these are the same students who choose me every day. So I perform—for their learning, their motivation, their belief that English can still be something good.

And in the back of my head, I’m always worrying about pronunciation and, above all, grammar. At this point, I’d rather have zero-English students than intermediate ones, because they ask fewer questions about grammar. All they want is to practice speaking. Of course, I still have to think of questions and follow-up questions to keep the conversation going. The conversation must keep going—otherwise, there’s dead air, and that can lead to awkwardness. That’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid.

I am a prostitute of money, selling my intellect for a meager salary.