So in your jobs and your daily dealings with people I must ask: how do you get through without feeling entirely weary? How do you get up, wash your face, eat your Wheaties, and make it through another day when you don’t see the positive changes you had hoped to make an impact on when the hubris of your youth was your driving force?

I really want to know.

I like change, lots of it. For work, for my personal life, and for the learning that accompanies it whether I take it at the time or have to learn the lesson later. My career thus far has spanned teaching English/Language Arts in four different school buildings, one private school, two middle schools, two high schools, and a plethora of different people. During this tenure, I have been classified as a teacher, teacher leader, literacy coach, and administrator. Much of what I learned about myself, then, is that I love to work with the less fortunate, the humble, the ones who crave learning. The biggest difference between teaching at a private school was the sense of entitlement and I’m ever grateful for the learnings I acquired from a simple, old janitor named Allen. When I left that building I digested much of the attitude of those teachers and sorted through it to discover that kids are kids and my job doesn’t change just because the population does.

Leaving that school I went on to work at the highest poverty middle school in our district and gave as much as I gave previously only to discover that for those students there was such an appreciation for my efforts. Their parents expressed it, too, and it was then I studied the amount of triumph of those students was proportionate to how deserving they felt. What a sobering thought, but that’s just the reality of it.

Recently, I ran into two of the private school teachers who asked what I’d been doing in the six years since I had taught with them. I rattled off  the litany of accomplishments and what I’d been busy with and we chatted cordially. We were, it needs to be said, in the middle of a department store and I knew it was the kind of polite conversation one has when catching up with acquaintances.

“So, you went over to teach at School X. Hmmm. How was that?”

Her meaning wasn’t even thinly veiled. She wanted to know, “What’s it like working with poor kids? With lots of Black kids? With those heathens and hoodlums who only come to school to fight and wreak havoc?”

It was to be a polite conversation. This really shouldn’t ruin it, but her tone set my blood to boiling in a matter of seconds. So I began the process of heaping burning coals on her head.

“It was great! I loved it there!”

“Yes, but was it different?”

I hated the way she said that word. Different. It crossed my mind to slap her right upside the head.

“Absolutely not. Twelve year olds at one school are the same as twelve year olds at another. They all have the same basic needs and deserve an education. They are all teachable.”

“Oh.”

Not the answer she wanted, I assume. Not what she hoped to hear that perhaps I feared for my life on a daily basis and that I’d been caught up in a fight or two and had to put someone in a headlock. That was, of course, true. But she was positively dripping with anticipation of hearing this. She nearly drooled to get The Goods On Poor Public Educators.

“So, you left there. Where are you now?”

I was under the impression, what with all her salivating, that she already knew. She had heard that I pretty much followed those Poor Kids to the high school where I am currently a guidance dean so I offered it up to her minus any fanfare.

“Oh. WOW. You’re there?” There was no way she wanted to hide her incredulous response. She reminded me of the viper news reporters chomping at the bit to get a juicy story.

“Yeah, I love it. It’s great.”

“Well, I hear bad things about that place. What are YOUR thoughts on working there?”

While I am ever conscious of the fact that I represent my school, my district, my city, and my career in education I know that I am to always be positive. It pains me to give anyone ammunition with which to shoot all educators. Yet, here I was in the middle of a store browsing the aisles for sweater sets. My arms were full of a couple of outfits and I had yet to try them on and didn’t want this to ruin my day.

But I didn’t even have to reply to her.

Out of nowhere a woman came around the corner. She had been listening to our conversation on the other side of the dress rack and came to confront the woman to whom I was speaking.

“What’s the matter with you!? Am I to understand that YOU’RE A TEACHER? There is nothing wrong with where she teaches or works or whatever she does there. My daughter went there and just graduated and I was skeptical of sending her there because of PEOPLE LIKE YOU who bash everything in this town when you don’t know anything about it. Why don’t you take your ass over there and see for yourself? My kids have gotten great educations at both those schools this lady just mentioned!”

It occurs to me that, obviously, I am This Lady.

But This Lady, the one who rocked my world by coming to my defense and the defense of all whom I care to represent, was now my favorite person on the planet. Would she balk if I kissed her full on the lips? Would she hate it if I picked her up and twirled her around the store? Could I send her on an all-expenses paid cruise to the Caribbean?

This Lady, me, will forever be grateful for that bitch slap moment when I didn’t have to sigh and explain myself ad nauseam about why I do what I do. The relief I felt after watching this stranger unleash on former colleagues was thoroughly satisfying.

To The Lady who saved me from having to defend my passion for educating ALL STUDENTS: you are my heroine. I didn’t even buy a dress or those sweater sets. You also made me restructure all future “polite conversations.”

Hope that you can be wrapped up in God’s arms as He paints a picture for you in the sky.

Be encouraged that such colors are even possible and found in nature.

And then? Well, just share them with a friend and have a nice day.

In keeping with the theme of making a difference I’m trying hard to live an authentic life that puts my mental health first and foremost, but that keeps coming with other prices that I didn’t expect to incur. That means making lists on sticky notes and posting them around my house to read and re-read in the hopes that they help heal.

Right now my healing is coming from my very close relationship with my mother that survived teen pregnancies that none of us could foresee but that, nonetheless, affected my family in ways we probably haven’t fully dealt with yet. For the curious, I’m writing this here instead of there because it feels safe. Whether or not it is remains to be seen. A very long time ago I made a 100 List of things about me and wrote that after having my daughter at 15 *I got pregnant again before she turned one and gave up that baby for adoption. 20 years ago. Time flies when you’re trying hard to stop being a complete fuck-up and prove that you still have a brain.

Healing, then, has me doing a few things:

1. Seeking counseling even though it’s getting tough and leaving me in tears each time.

2. Yoga and/or breathing exercises accompanied by stretching. Sometimes the stretching is in bed, other times on the floor after my body is dragged from that goose-down bedding. So. Hard.

3. Quiet time.

4. Working on a book. Also hard. And trying to find a way to channel a passion for getting internet to the impoverished. A weird passion, I know.

5. Writing, screaming, yelling at God. That one is a doozy. Pretty soon the yelling will have to subside into softer pleas, but I’m not there yet.

I’m hoping all these things will help to make a difference in my life so that I’m not full of regret at 70 years of age. While there is knowledge to be had, I prefer the wisdom that remains. Whatever wisdom is out there I am 20 years smarter because I want it despite the great fear I have for writing it here just now. Be kind. Don’t recall that tough, smart-ass chick I have been portraying. Instead, remember a tender creature hoping for healing by making a difference in the small things.

How fitting that I would click on a link on my own blog to this tonight. Shannon was asking for advice from Birth Moms and I surprised even myself for commenting. This has been in my closet for far too long. If I am to heal, I have to share.

*I deleted it later fearing something. What? Something bad, I was sure. Writing for this site has made it less scary.