Education

I am a teacher.

I teach juniors in high school, and contrary to what a pedophile may try to argue with you, I will tell you right now that high school kids are exactly that. They are kids. Children masquerading in adult masks. They still live with a parent. They can't see rated R movies without sneaking in or going with someone old enough. They still have sleep overs. Being smart is still uncool. They're inappropriate and mean and wonderful and lovely. They are kids. I would even argue that someone who is 18 is still a child. That child may be budding into adulthood, but they currently still know jack shit about life. I know this because I am 26 and still currently pretty much know jack shit about life. But my life experience has shown me that I should be in awe of knowing so little. An open vessel waiting to absorb life's secrets. A teenager knows absolutely nothing but believes to their core that they know everything.

So I constantly find myself in awkward and amusing situations as I try my best to be a teacher who loves all her kids, and loves them all more than she loves English. I feel too little secondary teachers teach with this kind of gentle love- and I find it fundamental to teaching. As I said above, high school kids are kids. Many teachers are so hard handed, and act as though the children they teach are, in fact, adults. Being as I can't even say "ass" in my class without a chorus of "ooooooooh!!!" makes it hard for me to fathom why so many teachers forget this basic concept- but I am also a novice, and will not pretend I know more than those who have been in this profession for you know, more than a year.

I believe there is no other job as rewarding as teaching. As having the privilege and chance to alter the course of someone's life for the better. To tell them they can when they have been told by others they can't- to make them laugh when they truly believe their world is crumbling (and sometimes, it really is).  I feel too many teachers treat teenage turmoil with an attitude of "it's not a big deal, get over it already!"- forgetting that as kids, they can't. I see them and think "shit that sucks. I've been there, it gets better!! Don't give up! It feels like the end but I can promise it isn't! Hang in there!"

I used to feel ashamed that I'm not in love with Shakespeare and that I don't think kids should be required to read half the stuff we make them read. I still feel ashamed at times, because I feel judged for thinking that reading should still be fun in high school. But it should! What better way to give them encouragement to learn than to give them interesting material and make them do rigorous work with it? To have them write zombie research papers so they can practice the writing style and process before tackling harder topics. To read complex books like The Hunger Games and learn how reading is more than just enjoying a novel, it's about connecting what you read to your own experiences and learning how it incorporates the world around us.

I want to make kids remember how lovely books are, how breathtaking learning is, and how amazing living is. And I just hope other teachers out there feel this way too. If not, perhaps I am capable of rekindling that flame.

Maybe one day I'll see that "fire is catching."

Monsoons

When the first Arizona rainfall of the year
hits the sidewalks
my students dance in raindrops
as if it were the first time they've felt a storm.

I envy the sky
as it keeps my students' attention
no Twitter
no texting
just smiles and awe

My new years resolution
                      let me teach like the first monsoon.

Metamorphosis

The small brown envelope jingled alongside her. There were four keys inside, each one seemingly dancing to her footsteps as they echoed across the campus. She would share her spaces as she began to forge a new pathway in her life- but she realized she didn't think she would mind the company.

Giddiness, fear, and an excitement entirely new to her swirled inside her veins. Regardless the upcoming trials- the successes and failures- she was going to make herself the heroine of her life story.

Collisions

Her anxieties seemed to swallow her up from the inside out, sometimes without leaving her even a trace of light to be able to find her way out. It began to happen more and more often, as though it were some huge creature taking large, disjointed breaths. She crawled out only to be gulped back down by fears she struggled so hard to understand. It left her with a heavy heart and perspiring palms.

She named it the Thought Monster. And it was one of her biggest dreams to slay it.

reminiscent

Grief hits at the most unanticipated times...

Waves

Your littlest granddaughter just wants you to know
that though you could not speak the last time I saw you
when I told you I loved you,
(I hope that you heard me)
I knew in my heart that you loved me too.

I kissed your forehead 

even after they told me 

you were gone,

because you were still right there

 (I hope you felt it).

Rest in peace, grandpa. 

Time will never change how much I love you.

Story Time

The blades of the fan circled slowly enough so that the dust lining each blade was noticeable. It irritated the girl who sat below them, nestled into a white leather sofa. She craned her neck to watch the rotations. Everything in the room was white and smelled of disinfectant, as if the confessions told in the room were so dire only Clorox could really purge them from the walls. She heard the door to her left open. Footsteps and the rustling of paper caused her to roll her eyes and sigh.
The man walked by her with an elegance that didn't quite match his profession. She studied him carefully. His gray slacks reminded her of the dust that circled above her.
He turned to her as he sat down in the adjacent chair. He fiddled with a small black object. The girl heard a faint click.

"Could you state your name for the record please?" It must have been a tape recorder. She shifted her weight.

"Janie Leto."  The handcuffs were starting to make her wrists itch.

"And how old are you Ms. Leto?"

"I'm 16." He nodded and scribbled something onto his legal pad.

"Ms. Leto, do you understand why you're here?" Janie let out a small, almost inaudible sigh. "Does anyone?" A faint smile tugged at the man's lips. "Well, Ms. Leto, I know I'm here to help you. So why don't you tell me, do you know why you're here?"
"It's part of my rehabilitation program at the residential treatment center. I come here, tell you my life story..." She nodded toward his paper. "You write your little notes down, make me seem like a boring textbook case, and then I go back to the RTC a new woman. Sound about right to you, Doc?"
There was no faint smile this time. "You can call me Milo. I'm glad you understand why you're here Janie, but I don't think you're going to be leaving the psychiatric ward for some time. I'm hoping you understand why." She nodded. "I can deal with that." He shuffled his papers and looked at her. "I'm going to ask you a series of questions, and I'd like you to answer them as truthfully as you can." The girl blinked her eyes.

"Shoot."