I’m already starting to count semesters left, though I have nearly a decade to win my pension. I have seventeen left. Seventeen semesters to deal with the pain, the argument, the love/hate relationship I have with this career, and today it hurts me more than it helps me.
Why is he in the hallway now, laughing his ass off and GOOFING OFF WITH HIS FRIENDS? Why do I hear his voice, after he cheated on her, after he convinced her back, after she came in distraught with handmarks on her arm, her breakfast tossed to the floor, his controlling words still ringing in her ears? Why did I call the dean, the assistant principal, who came jogging to my classroom to extricate her, to hear her story, ONLY TO HEAR HIS VOICE IN THE HALLWAY three hours later? Why wasn’t he sent home, after the long list of inappropriate behavior, everything from intentionally using racial slurs to skipping class to cussing out the admin to refusing to do work to taking advantage of a girl in the bathroom and allowing his friend to film it and post it online…
Seventeen semesters left of arguing with kids about their phones, convincing them that English is important, and telling those in charge to do something about kids who should be nowhere near this school.
And sometimes it feels like seventeen lifetimes.
