I will speak to almost any room about the miracle of local news. However, one annual event strikes fear in my soul.

Yes, I am talking about the Great American Teach-In. When requests to present at this career day roll around, I pretend as if my hearing and vision have simultaneously gone out.

For one thing, time in a classroom will remind anyone that teachers are angel warriors who deserve the world (specifically, larger salaries). Moreover, everyone knows the hottest Teach-In acts bring props spicier than, well, a newspaper. First responders, animal handlers, smoothie baristas — they are the real celebs on school grounds.

This year, I got nabbed by a close family friend tasked with finding a speaker for her kids' classes. "For you, I will do it," I said in the dramatic fashion of a Victorian woman with wasting disease.

I ran to Five Below and bought candy and plastic gewgaws to use as outright bribes. Then I headed to Curtis Fundamental Elementary in Dunedin, Florida, where the first thing I saw was... yep, a fire truck. The firefighters were letting kids gleefully spray the industrial hose.

"#&%, *#%@, *&#%^$," I said, walking in.

My friend escorted me to a second-grade class, explaining that the kids had already seen a baby alligator and a Scottish dance performance. Cool! Now to thrill 8-year-olds with context about commentary in a modern media landscape. Would they metabolize the distinction between an op-ed and a column? Where were they on search engine optimization?

I walked in and — I am not making this up — a beekeeper was showing the children a block of bees. Bees! The school was Wonkaland!

With no escape outside of faked death, I endeavored to teach them about interviewing. I brought them up in pairs via candy kickback and forced them to talk to each other. When I banned the word "favorite," they skillfully switched to "Which color do you like the most?" No marks off for hustle.

We moved to fifth grade, where I was slotted in mercilessly just before the fire truck. The teacher, Sarah Lenhart, ate a slice of tiramisu from a visiting chef in the next room.

"Who's seen one of these before!?" I said, holding up the Tampa Bay Times.

They mostly raised their hands. Good start!

"What's in it?"

"News!" they said.

Yeah! OK! Who needs baby alligators when we have the fragile and essential Fourth Estate?

I told them how to develop an opinion and refine it with evidence, logic and emotion. We talked about acknowledging opposing views and sticking the landing. With the last dregs of my Five Below haul, I goaded them into writing their own columns.

These kids who'd spent the morning chasing the sugar dragon executed their pieces with conviction, humor and precision. Here are excerpts (I have edited for length, spelling and grammar, Ms. Lenhart):

"I believe we should have Domino's at school. If someone has an allergy, we can get gluten-free crust. In my opinion, it is the best pizza place and the best food for Friday."

Salient, well-reasoned argument. Airtight and legally sound. Next.

"You are halfway through class when you start seeing sheep in front of you, and your eyes start slowly closing. Fifth grade is hard, and sometimes you need a time to rest. Naptime could help."

Cancel the Pulitzer Prizes. We have the winner right here. Next.

"I think more people should read horror stories. Horror stories are fun to read because they can give you a jump scare. If you don't like jump scares, be brave, and face your fears."

I did not expect these kids to weigh in on geopolitical affairs, but I like it. Next.

"When you see a pickle in a jar in Publix, you might say ewww. But you are WRONG! Everyone misunderstands pickles. Pickles are a juicy, long, small squishy piece of heaven in a jar. Pickles can go with anything like hamburgers, hot dogs, sandwiches and much more. Pickles are delicious. You just need to give them a chance. So let's stop with the ewww and start with the yummm."

I disagree vehemently, but our nation was founded on dissent. This can stand.

The kids wrecked the last of my candy bag — I mean, they ripped it in half — and ran off to see the fire truck. I stood there with the suspicious feeling that they had fun and learned something. A twinge of accomplishment briefly overtook all the bravado, besting even the cuddly mob of guide dogs and the electric company bucket truck waiting in the parking lot. Was this magic what keeps teachers going when they are gripping their last slippery marble? Turns out, it's actually kind of great.

Stephanie Hayes is a columnist at the Tampa Bay Times in Florida. Follow her at @stephhayes on X or @stephrhayes on Instagram.

Photo credit: MChe Lee at Unsplash