Ms. Powell

When I introduced myself to the 5th graders who would receive the demonstration lesson that comprised the main part of my interview at P.S. ABC, I accidentally instructed them to call me /mihs/ (rather than /mihz/) Powell. I learned my lesson later, when the members of my all-female a cappella group let me know that this characterized me as an anti-feminist bimbo, rather than a strong and independent woman. Luckily, I got the job anyway. I discovered the good news last week but, busy finishing up senior year, I haven't had much chance to let it sink in or celebrate or prepare. All I really have time for, at this point, is a little psychological readying. To distract myself from studying for finals, I'm not playing computer games or looking at pictures of puppies. I'm Craigslisting Manhattan apartments, talking to my boyfriend about how we'll live together without going crazy, and generally trying to think of myself as an adult. What seems to help the most is whispering to myself, "Ms. Powell, Ms. Powell, Ms. Powell, Ms. Powell, Ms. Powell."