What I'm Doing Here

Well, the rural south is still the rural south. Still slow, still sweet. The Subway workers are so nice, I want to eat them along with their sandwiches, and my students, though usually late, have contributed such things to my life as, "I know you said take two cookies, but can I have five more?" (from my 90 pounder) and "It feels safe in this room," and "I've always wanted to write, but no teacher has ever been interested in anything I've ever had to say." I'm not tooting my own horn here, I'm blaring the horn of Low Income Schools are a Catastrophy Containing Astounding Churren (southern for "children.") Do you hear the tragic toot? It sounds like a slow R&B song, looks like a high dropout rate, and smells like sugar cane in the morning.

Other things of interest:

Jason, from first period, would rather be referred to as TAT.

Our step team puts "Stomp the Yard" to shame. And I ain't trippin. They're ridiculously talented.

I signed the petition of a four-foot-nothing nineteen-year-old female to be in my class before finding out her nickname, schoolwide, is: THE BEAST.

According to my Senior English Survey, Chris's strongest skill in English is: "nouns."

Someone made the unwise decision of selecting teachers to parade around in Mardi Gras garb, tossing out beads and prizes to the rest of us, reluctant in our seats during our first faculty meeting. Mr. Crazy Face, consistenty innappropriate, hesitated to throw any beads without first belting out, "Show me summin!" over and over again.

And amongst other modest proposals, at the end of the day, when I'm thinking, what am I DOING here, I get a small note from my 20-year-old senior, Tim, which says:

"I'm going to need all the help I can get."