Denise R. Weuve

Ink Damage and Other Permanent Stains

It Comes Like an Angry Mob

The school year is upon us and I shall not be able to escape it. Though I should get some type of valiant points for trying to do so even in the last harrowing days of freedom. Even now I should be creating a syllabus planning the first week or 2 of school and not here – typing away, as if I’m getting away with something. The unfortunate truth is I will get away with nothing and soon my days will be filled with essays, worksheets, parents, admin, and students.
I, unlike many teachers that I know, actually really really like my students. I get them at 14 as they start high school and then when they are seniors as they exit. The growth they go through is amazing, and quite honestly they make the job what it is. If I could remove the administration the grading and perhaps even some of the other teachers, I would be the happiest poet-teacher in the world. This job, like a corporate job, assures that never happens through the bureaucracy and politics of maneuvering through the system of public education.
The students, and I tell you they are the reason for everything, they will make you laugh on a day when you did not even think you could smile. If anyone ever bothered to listen to students, their pain and sadness would vibrate as if yelled through a bullhorn, even when they whisper. So as much as I am avoiding writing the syllabus or planning a solitary lesson, I do truly look forward to my new students.
It will be a great year, and that is what I will tell myself every morning as I drag myself forward into another day.
Or I can always watch this to remind myself that I matter.
What Teachers Make.

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