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Here's what no one told me about being a teacher: You get fearless. But I don't mean fearless all the way around _ there's this increasing fear of authority figures, test scores, and running out of chocolate I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about being impervious to the kinds of people that scare most other people.

Case in point: my ill-advised trip to a poorly lit convenience store recently. I needed to buy milk, bread, and other things I'd put off buying until it was way after grocery store hours. On my way out of the store, I hear a man's voice that might as well be a rattlesnake's rattle.

"Hey, hey baby. Hey sweetheart, give me a cigarette," the man yells, his voice everywhere and no where in the parking lot's inkiness.

My first thought: "That guy's a crackhead. I can hear it in his voice."

My second thought: "Do I have a weapon?"

And then.

The Teacher took over.

And I mean that quite literally. Even though I was dressed in very un-teacher-like yard work clothes, I suddenly felt like I had on my uniform of starched white shirt, khaki skirt, and sensible shoes. Kind of like a superhero. It was like going down the Bat Pole in the Bat Cave and arriving fully costumed, ready for battle.

I pulled my hand away from the car door, spun on my heel, and said in the same voice I use during lot duty:

"I'm NOT your sweetheart and I'm NOT your baby! You don't talk to a woman like that! You should be ashamed of yourself!"

Honest to God. Cross my heart and swear on the Bible, I said that.

I saw him then. Skinny, dirty, and desperate as a one-eyed dog. He put his hands up defensively.

"Okay lady! Jesus Christ, I just wanted a smoke! You ain't gotta be like that."

I looked at him over my glasses, disdainfully raising an eyebrow just like my beloved mentor and professor, Dr. Dudt, did when someone was rude. He limped away, mumbling and cursing. I watched him leave before I turned, opened my car door and got into my plain black Nissan. It wasn't the Batmobile. I wasn't a superhero. I was a mom with two kids, pushing into middle age, with jack squat for life insurance.

"What did you just do?" I berated myself. "He could've killed you! Idiot!" My hand shook as I put my key into the ignition. I hit the door lock button, squealing the tires over the concrete.

As I told this to my father over dinner, he went pale.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he said. "That guy would've shanked you for fifty cents!"

"I know, Dad, I know," I said. "It turned out okay. I'm okay."

"You're not 10-feet-tall

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