Going Anyway

Who Wouldn't Run From This?

Wednesday, May 24

I was preparing for the day this morning when Paul Davison, the seventh grade English teacher, walked into my classroom. It made me nervous when he shut the door behind him. He's a tall, skinny, black gentleman. He's usually a really nice guy.

"Hey," I said, putting the marker on the lip of the whiteboard.

"Steven, I don't think you realize how insulting your words were the other day during that meeting. First, not everyone needs to be as strict as you, and second, we do care just as much as you. I shouldn't have to tell you this, but no one likes your cockiness. Get a grip, man."

I just love it when people snap at me right off the bat.

What a wonderful note to end on.

I crossed my arms, and glared. "Whoa, first of all, some teachers here do not care at all, and they've made that pretty evident. Second, I was asked about my teaching methods, and I explained how I run my classroom. I explained that running a classroom just off of positivity doesn't work. I'm all for encouragement, but these kids have very little discipline at home. With all due respect, I have the highest grades out of every class in the middle school."

"Just because your average is higher than the rest of ours doesn't mean we're not doing as good of a job as you. You're more--"

I put my hands up. "Why are you on my back? What did I do to you? I haven't done anything wrong."

I think he's been spending too much time with middle schoolers...

"You don't believe in us. You believe in the students, but you don't believe in their leaders."

I shoved my hands into my pockets, and leaned on my whiteboard. "I grew up here, Paul. I hated almost all my teachers because it was like they were out to get me and ruin my fun. I don't want that for my students." I paused. "I don't think you realize how hard leaving is for me because I know how broken these homes are. My mom died from cancer because of her addiction. My sister turned to drugs, and now I'm raising her kid. I could've gone that route, but I didn't. One teacher told me I was worth it, and it changed everything." I cleared my throat. I hate talking about my dirty laundry. "I want to break the cycle of poverty and drugs. I'm not trying to be cocky, but it seems like nothing else is working, so I have to speak up about what I'm doing. I don't want this town to continue on this broken path." My voice broke at the end.

Some days I want to stay. Some days I hate it here. Some days I feel obligated to stay. Some days I have faith for the future without me here. Some days I just don't know.

Paul took my words in, and he walked closer to me. "I get it, and we appreciate all that you've done, but you didn't convey your message in the right way."

"Okay," I said, unwilling to apologize. "Thank you for the feedback."

Paul sat down on top of one of the desks. "Forgive me for asking, but are you leaving to run away from this mess?"

Leaning against the whiteboard. I ran a hand through my hair, and folded my arms again. I rested the sole of my foot on the wall. "Who wouldn't run from this, given the opportunity?"

"Someone who thinks this school need major help." I rolled my eyes, sighing. "Steven, you're criticizing the way we're doing things, and you're the one leaving."

Before I could respond, two students came in for my first block.

"Look, I gotta go," he said, getting up. "Just think about what I said."

He left.

And I have thought about what he said.

I'm still coming to the conclusion that I'm making the right decision.