I could have gotten my Real Estate license. I could have only gone to school for two years and would have made a very efficient paralegal. The local Starbucks is always in need of friendly help. This is the daily morning conversation with myself on my way to school. I could have done any one of those things. But I didn't. I chose to teach English to unruly teenagers instead. I have to remind myself of why I made this decision, though it often escapes me. I'm shaping young minds, I say. I'm making a difference. I am molding the future of my children to come. All of that does not matter when the heel of my black pump french kisses the wad of blue gum stuck onto the hallway floor and I am rooted in place, in the midst of dancing teenage eyes. All of this does not matter when I discover that that same gum has found itself into the key hole of my door. It does not matter when I am stuck in a showdown with a young man who could throw me over simply by breathing in my direction because he is late for the third time without a pass. It does not matter when the class has performing a coup de tat and I have been overthrown. It especially does not matter when I have spent over ten hours on a beautiful Saturday preparing a well-thought out lesson only to be interrupted by,
"Can I have the pass?"
"Mrs. S, new shoes? They're ugly"
"I thought teacher's were smart."
"We had homework?"
"You're not fair" "
I don't want to."
"You can't make me."
"What are you gonna do about it?"
Why is this a noble profession again? Why am I not on a farm in the middle of Virginia growing my own organic tomatoes, weaving baskets barefoot, strumming on an old guitar by the "crick" watching the sun set from my dilapidated porch front yelling to Jimmy, the boy next door with the fishing pole to "Catch a big 'un!"
Why? Because I am shaping young minds in New Jersey. I am attempting to shape young minds in New Jersey. I am praying that the young minds may let me speak for at least ten minutes of the class period. I am asking God that the young minds would perhaps not be so hostile to the good little teacher. I am seeking refuge in the Teacher's bathroom hoping the young minds won't find me for another minute while I wipe tears of frustration. I am hoping the young minds will sit down in their seats instead of on the window ledges and stop using profane language-at least not be so loud when my supervisor walks by-and that they will not eat in my classroom and that they stop telling me to piss off-and that perhaps they will realize that I actually care for them but the space in my soul is getting smaller and smaller....
I am teacher. For now. For as long as I can make it in this noble profession. However, for the record, making espresso is more than a job. It is an art.
