What do you want to be when you grow up? Because we do get to choose."

Miss Green asked her kindergarten class, or was it young fives? Twenty pretzel-legged boys and girls sat on juice-stained carpet, underwear streaked with dingleberries, everyone eager to announce the fortunes of who they wish to become.

Sometimes the question is asked, "What do you want to do when you grow up?" The difference is in the "do" versus the "be."

However, it's rare for the questioner to emphasize the difference, and even rarer for five-year-olds to understand the difference.

Annie spoke first, as Annie usually does. "I want to be a veterinarian." That's a long word. "Veter-in-air-ian."

"Sound it out. Sound it out." was what Miss Green always said to comfort troubled tongues. Except it was clear Annie needed no reminder to "sound it out." This wasn't her first time.

But how can she say such a large word, we wondered. Perhaps she enjoyed the prestige pronouncing tricky words brings. Or perhaps she really did enjoy veterinary science, of which large words are routine. Or perhaps it was a more intricate tale.

Perhaps she once read the word "vet" underneath the word "homeless," interrupted in tears. Perhaps those tears reflected themselves in the convex mirror mounted in her mother's dashboard. Perhaps it was the tendency of Annie's mother to watch her daughter's reflection as they drove along the highway. Perhaps her mother shrieked at the sight of these tears, demanding to know the matter. Through all the sobbing and stuttering, Mom decided this the opportune moment to berate Annie's impediment. Mom was parked and flashing her hazards, unbuckled, contorted, and halfway into the rear cabin, shaking Annie to explain herself when Annie, given her keen ability to use clear language in tricky situations, managed to spare a complete thought between her mother's violent rebukes.

"Am I going to be a homeless veterinarian when I grow up?" Pointing to the homeless veteran outside the car door, who was curiously praying, not for himself, but for Annie, though he neither knew her name nor how to pray.

"Oh, Annie, child, did you think that man on the street was a homeless vet?" Annie nods. "Oh, Annie, child, that man is a veteran, not a veterinarian. That's what 'vet' stands for, 'veteran.'" Annie still doesn't understand. "A veteran, Annie, is an ex-military member who lives on the welfare of dutiful people." Annie knew all about welfare and duty.

So Annie vowed never to become a vet when she grows up. "Absolutely not." Her mother agrees. Perhaps Annie and mom perfected the pronunciation of 'veterinarian' for the next 15 minutes until Annie was certain never to call herself a 'vet' and never to be embarrassed by mispronouncing 'veterinarian.' Perhaps this is how Annie knows the word so well.

"When I grow up, I'm going to be a veterinarian." "Indeed," her mother nods. Then she dismissed her hazards and they drove past their homeless compatriot. Perhaps this was how it happened. Things that happen now, however, we were all perplexed.

The boys firstly baffled. They knew better than to ask, but their ignorance was discomforting. The words, "What did Annie say?" fell from our open mouths. We were eyeing each other for clues, eyeing the other girls whose expressions, unfortunately, were clueless. The girls were staring at juice stains, hoping to escape the moment unnoticed. Annie went on smiling while the class sat paralyzed.

Seeing this, Miss Green rescued us as Miss Green always did. "A vet? How wonderful, Annie. Who would like to go next?" Then after moments of silence, everyone instantaneously erupted, roaring smirks from the boys, violent hand-raising from the girls. Annie wasn't smarter than us, we thought. She was merely playing us for fools, thinking smart words could distract from the truth of her simplicity.

"You're a sellout!" we wanted to scream at her. "You're just like every other girl who thinks puppies are cute and cats pretty. You didn't really think we'd fall for that long word, did you? We know who you are and who you will become. You are nobody!"

Children are a ruthless bunch. It's a good thing we're too shy to ever speak. The boys were angry with competition. Nate was mouthing the words his father taught him. In fact, we all were.

"Investments. Equity. Banker." Connor was doing the same. "Lawyer. Attorney." We were preparing for war against the girls. "Surgeon. General. Politician." Our parents had taught us well.

Even I was antsy trying to pronounce "designer." "Artist." But I figured I'd fall back on my usual "accountant." "Accountant." Because nobody seemed to understand this and their bafflement was my encouragement to persist. Plus, "artist" tends to prompt follow-up questions like, "What kind of artist?" or "What do you think you'll do?" I hadn't thought it through, of course. At least, I hadn't thought it through long enough to know what kind of artist I'd be. I did, however, know I was going to be an artist. Of course I knew. I just said so. I am going to be an artist. What do you mean, "What do you think I'll do?" I'm going to be an artist.

Sometimes adults ask stupid questions, especially to children. Do adults think suppressing their intelligence when speaking to a child is something the child requires? It's not. But like I said, we had erupted, desperate to be better than our girly counterparts.

Jack was almost decided to blurt out, "Sports journalist!" when Annie rose to her feet and screamed, "I'm not going to be a vet! I'm going to be a veterinarian!" There we were, thinking we understood "vet" was shorthand for "veterinarian." Miss Green confirmed it just seconds ago. Except Annie is emphatically saying the two are not the same.

And poor Jack, face buried in his hands. This commotion must have stripped those words straight from his mouth. Even Miss Green didn't know what to say. And she always knew what to say. "Sound it out, Miss Green, sound it out!" She didn't.

Instead, as unexpected as food poisoning, Elijah raised his hand and without hesitation asked the most profound question we'd ever heard. "What's the difference between what we want to do and what we want to be?" The class stammered. Frozen. Miss Green almost asked him to repeat the question. We almost asked him to repeat the question. We didn't. Instead, Annie returned to her seat. The girls lowered their hands. The boys shut their mouths and quit mouthing the strange words of their parents.

For the first time in our five-year-old life, we stopped recalling the many ideas and sounds we'd heard before. Our brains seized the fire for those brief moments. The train of our thinking came to a screeching halt. Worse, the train of our thinking stopped. It stopped and then reversed its direction. For that moment, we chugged backwards. Our thoughts were still moving, our brains still thinking, but never in a direction we'd ever thought before. We weren't merely recalling old memories. Something else was happening. Perhaps we were inventing something, creating something, solving for an answer to Elijah's question. What did Elijah's question mean? Miss Green finally spoke. She spoke unlike herself, without happy cadence, celebrating our participation. She spoke directly, dryly. She spoke how Grandmother spoke when announcing the suicide of Grandpa.

"Your grandfather loves you," she said. "He loves you so much, he's chosen to live beyond you, to be with you in your hearts and minds. Your grandfather has left his body, and so you must remember your grandfather if you wish to be with him." To be with him, I thought. Miss Green finally spoke. To do something is an action, similar to the verbs we've been learning about.

Can someone give me a verb?

"To jump."

"Yes, to jump. That is something we do. We will jump. We jump. We jumped. There is a beginning, a middle, and an end. What are you doing when you're jumping?"

There was a pause.

"It's a trick question," she comforts us.

"You're jumping?"

"Yes, you're jumping. And what are you doing after you're jumping?"

Another pause.

"It can be anything," she added.

"You're not jumping."

For some reason, Miss Green found this funny.

"Okay, you're not jumping. Perhaps you're just standing. Or you're falling. Or you're running after you were jumping. And what are run, jump, and fall?"

Someone smarter than me said verbs. I was lost. "Things you do?," I thought.

"Yes, verbs. Verbs are things you do. And things you do are verbs."

So what was the question?

Eli asked, "What's the difference between what we want to do and what we want to be?"

"If doing is an action, like running, working, and learning, does anyone want to guess what being is?"

We were still. Stiller than normal. For longer than normal. The girls had returned to their juice stains, frozen in time. The boys were circling their eyes around the room, desperately avoiding eye contact with Miss Green. Miss Green was looking out the window. I knew because I was staring directly at Miss Green. Then at Eli. Then back at Miss Green. Eli began staring at Miss Green, too. Then at me for staring at him. Then we both stared out the window. All this staring had my eyes crossed.

"When's recess?" Someone was about to say it. This silence was lasting too long. That's when Miss Green asked her impossible question.

"What are you doing when you're not doing something?"

It was clear the boys were sick of this game, because Brian, without raising his hand or anything, said, "You're not doing anything." He said it the way he taunts Annie. He spoke like a donkey. "Hee haw, hee haw." It was a mistake. Miss Green moved her eyes from the courtyard directly onto Brian.

"Isn't not doing something doing something?"

Brian shrugs. The food poisoning returned. Diarrhea was upon us for revenge when Elijah saved us yet again. We were about to scream at Eli.

"You better speak. You're the one who got us into this mess. Now get us out of it. I'm going to use a swear word at you, Eli. Don't make me. I will. We all will."

"We're being," said Eli.

"Huh?"

The class exasperated.

"Exactly, Eli. The be verb is a special verb. It takes different forms. The be verb is also the 'Is' verb, is also the 'Are' verb, and the 'Were,' and the 'Was' verb, and the 'Am' verb. It all means the same thing. And it means the be verb does not have a beginning, a middle, or an end. It has all three. All the time."

"So we can't stop being."

"Exactly."

"When do we start being?"

"You already are."

Emily raised her hand. "What if I want to be a doctor?"

"Yeah," thought the choir of boys. "Obviously, Emily is not a doctor."

"You can," said Miss Green.

"Can what? Can be? You said we already are."

The boys were quick to object.

"But, Miss Green, Emily can't be a doctor. She's in school. Yeah, Miss Green. I'm not a policeman yet. Yeah, and Annie's not a vet. Yeah, Miss Green, and Sam isn't a teacher. We're students. We can't be those things. Not yet. How can she already be a doctor?"

"Ah, students, you're confusing doing with being. Of course Emily is not a doctor. Not yet, anyways. Emily has not been to medical school, and she does not have the various medical degrees, and she's obviously too young to work. But learning and having and working are all things we do. We cannot really be a doctor. We will always be who we already are. To be a doctor, then, is to merely do the many things doctors do. If you go to medical school, work in a hospital, prescribe people medicine, and monitor their health, you will do all the things doctors are required to do. And when somebody asks, 'What do you do?' You can tell them, 'I do doctor things.' Of course, people don't speak like that. It sounds awfully strange to tell people what we do. Instead we say what we are. We say, 'I am a doctor,' when we mean to say, 'I am a doctor because I do doctor things.'"

The class wasn't having it. I wasn't having it. I don't want to just do things. I want to be things. Some of the girls are beginning to cry. The boys are fidgeting with their laces, absolutely struck with fear. It was as if Miss Green stripped us of our future, threatening us with immediate and instantaneous death. We couldn't be what we wanted to be because we were stuck being who we already were. Our minds were melting. It just didn't make sense. Annie, somehow, was among the few not crying. She seemed presently relieved.

It was her who asked, "So I don't have to be a vet?"

This again. "No," we wanted to scream. We don't have time, Annie, for your antics. Quit with your veterinary ideals. Our lives are at stake. Who we are is lost."

Miss Green was nicer than we were, but was no less confused. "Annie, I thought you did want to be a vet."

Annie was choking to say the word "veterinarian" when she opted for "homeless" instead. "I don't want to be a homeless vet," she finally exhaled.

Perhaps Miss Green understood at that moment where all of this had gone awry and that this whole elaboration had been a terrible mistake. Even so, Miss Green carried on. At once she asked us to stand and return to our desks. She asked us to open our bags. She asked us to go on a treasure hunt. Not everyone at once, but after we understood where to look and what we would be looking for. "You're searching for yourselves," she said. "To find yourself, you will need to gather items you think yourself will like. This way, even if yourself does not know where to go, yourself will naturally follow the many items yourself already enjoys."

So off we went. We grabbed our favorite book from the shelf, grabbed our favorite color, grabbed our favorite picture. "What is your favorite animal from the chest of toys?," we thought. "What is your favorite letter in the alphabet?" We continued around the classroom, filling our bags until the time expired and our bags were full.

"So," she finally asked, "did you find yourselves?"

This lady really has lost it. "No," one of us replied. "We just found all the things we like."

"Yeah," echoed the boys.

We began showing each other what we most liked. The lines or the cars or the computer games or the cows or the horses or the drums or the harmonicas or the fairy tales or the travel books.

"But did you know you liked those things before you grabbed them?"

"Of course," we thought. "What does she mean, 'did we know'?"

"Travis, when did you first like race cars?"

I thought, "This is an impossible question. I also like race cars, but I have no clue when I began liking them, nor why. Have I always liked race cars? What if I stop liking race cars? Poor Travis. I'm sorry she's picking on you, Travis."

"Let me ask the question again," Miss Green says, "but in a different way. Do you like race cars?"

Travis is confused. I'm further confused. We both answer, "Yes." Out loud, the girls giggle and I blush. I didn't mean to answer. Not out loud.

"You also like race cars," Miss Green asks me, including me in the crossfire.

"Yes," I say.

But I don't know why or when I began liking them. Miss Green reminds us, however, "You weren't looking for what you liked, even though you might have chosen just that."

Then she asks, "What were you all ultimately looking for?"

I responded, "We were looking for our lost self."

"Exactly. So how did you know yourself would like the race car or the pony or the picture book of planes?"

"How did I know?," I thought to myself. Perhaps I was beginning to understand, except this lesson was falling apart. We were on the cusp of something new when we returned to how we always were."

Somebody was about to ask, "Can we go back to verbs?" Then mayhem erupted. The choir of boys began fighting because Nathan stole Connor's favorite book. Connor is arguing with Nathan. He states the book belongs to the school and so he can't have stolen it from Nathan. In reality, Nathan doesn't care for Connor's book, some volume of fairy tales. Nathan only knows this volume of fairy tales is the class favorite and hopes by stealing it for himself, he can trade the book for more animal crackers at snack time.

Meanwhile, Annie is arguing with Brian because Brian is using his safety scissors to cut the whiskers off Pumpkin, the stuffed cat. At this point, at least 13 children aren't behaving as they ought, either fighting with each other, talking against the teacher's voice, or causing chaos by dumping toys across the floor. That's at least 13 pennies taken from our class allowance should Miss Green penalize us. I can't let this continue. Connor arguing for what is just, Nathan trading goods to make himself rich, Annie forever obsessed with animals, me accounting for it all.

Miss Green is frazzled. I tug at her skirt.

"Can we have recess yet?"

And it's decided. Miss Green rings the bell to grab everyone's attention.

"Attention! If we all clean this mess in the next 30 seconds, I'll let us go to recess 15 minutes early."

15 minutes? That's a long recess. We were set. As if no affliction was ever dealt, the boys rushed towards the Legos and the toys. The girls were frenzied, searching for books and organizing them by color along the shelves. I was busy watching the penny jar, counting to 30, assuring our allowance was never depleted. All done.

Everyone stood single-filed, alphabetically. I was behind William, and Annie was behind me. The sun was already setting on this late fall day, and the courtyard was amok with fallen leaves and branches. Best of all, our class was first, a full 15 minutes before any of the other classes. Nothing was a bother but runaway balls and cackling laughter.

By the time Travis planted his first step onto the grass as leader of the line, the whole assembly was already fragmented and sprinting various ways. Miss Green was already sitting in her place on the bench, watching our shenanigans, and waiting for the other teachers to join her. A game of tag was already underway, and somehow I was already it. I made quick work of Eli.

"Tag, you're it!" I screamed.

"No," he said, but I was already halfway across the lawn.

Something about who he was, I think. "I am Eli," he thought to himself.

The thoughts are a lot for five-year-olds, even for Eli. Soon enough, tag became handball, became kickball, became time to return to class, to carpool, to another day of school tomorrow. Until next time, then. We're all quite ready for this to be done.

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