Rainy Days and Mondays

"YOU NEED TO CLEAN YO BUTT!"  the girl screamed in the middle of the math class I have to push-in to.  She was up, on her feet, one of the fighting girls from last year.  Big.  She could beat my ass in a minute.  

"HE TOLD ME I HAVE GINGIVITIS!"  she continued screaming.  

Gingivitis.  I never knew that was a big issue.  I really didn't care if she beat the other dickhead's ass.  I just kept trying to do math with my kids. 

"Everyone, I need you in the Media Center.  Five minutes.  It's important."  I heard the announcement and ran around the building until a door would accept my key card.  I don't prop the easiest doors open anymore.  We all used too, because the thingy is broken and it's a pain in the ass.  But, Uvalde.  

"I wanted you to hear this before you saw it on the news."  the administrator started.  Her voice broke.  She is not a crier.  Did someone die? Did someone get shot?

"We are on the list....the list...."

Oh god.  The list.  The one the DOE released a few days ago.  The list of the lowest performing, Title One schools in the state.  Yay us.  Bottom five percent of the worst schools in Georgia.  

"He gave my kids the finger!!!  He drew it on a paper and showed it to them!  He is insulting my students!"

He IS one of your students.  

I watched the meanest teacher in the school back Rafael into a corner, physically, for the second time in a week.  Screaming at him.  I watched Rafael's eyes, I knew he wanted to cry.  But, after you've crossed the Darién Gap, you learn to be tough.  

I watched Baby Gustavo organize the vis-a-vis pens in rainbow order.  The Hispanic kid that is not ESOL though everyone thinks he is grabbed the pens, sending several of them flying across the floor.  I picked them up and rearranged them in rainbow order.  Baby Gustavo looked at me and nodded.

"I'm OCD,  too."  he whispered.  

"HEY!  You're giving them the answers!" a teacher yelled at me while I tried to scaffold a lesson for one of my students.  

I snapped.

"You are denying them services.   They are in ESOL for a reason.  You barely let me pull them out, which is fine, but when I'm in that room you won't even let me speak to them.  They are in this program for a reason."

It was a full argument, in the hall, in front of other teachers and students.  And, it's not over.  

Rafael should have been in Intensive English.  I reached out to my coordinator when he arrived and we agreed that I was keeping him, because we both thought it would be too much change for him to change again.  I couldn't stop thinking about him, in that class, not being taught, those big eyes filling with tears.  

"So Rafael, my big mystery.  Tell me more..."  I sort of started.

"Well,"  he started in Spanish.  "We left when I was six."

He's almost nine now.

"The selva was awful.  Robbers.  It was not all felicidad."
"I'm sure it wasn't."  I responded.

"So, I went to this school in Chiapas for a minute.  They were racist."

"Because you're Black...."

"Yeah."

"I was in Tijuana, too." he continued.  

"Tijuana....I lived there....."  I responded.

"I was there twice, we got deported back there after we crossed."

"Oh Rafael.  I am so sorry."  

It was all I could say.  To think, he was in Tijuana, where I know so many people.  And he was there.  

Bottom five percent of schools in the whole state.  I thought of it over and over again.  And then, I emailed my coordinator.  We had to save him.  My school was not good for him.  

"CALL ME ASAP."  was the reply.  

I called her, while pacing in the same hallway where I argued with that teacher.  

"There are options.  We have to serve the whole child.   By the time they get Intensive English worked out the school year will almost be over.  There are options."

"Tell me."  I responded. 

"Are you willing to tutor him, before or after school?"

"Yes."  I responded.

"You should think about this."  she answered.

"I said yes.  I don't have to think about it."

"We are putting him in third grade.  He is only eight.  His birthday is on Christmas.  You will tutor him every morning from seven until seven forty-five, before your classes begin. You will be paid.  I am getting you a Rosetta Stone subscription.  Please stop crying, Ms. Wagner.  And, what is wrong with those people at your school?"

"I don't know."

*Title, The Carpenters

A Buen Hambre No Hay Mal Pan

I watched as the cold/flu spread through the faculty and students.  

"Y'all, I don't know if you saw our parking lot yesterday.  It was empty."  our principal announced during a quickie staff meeting.

"Thank you.  Just thank you.  Thank you so much for....coming today.  Lord, Ms. Kake had like, the whole first grade in one room and she doesn't even teach first grade.  Ms. Heard and Ms. Carr both had their babies and we have three more pregnant teachers on the way to leave.  Mr. Taylor got promoted to another school and Ms. Terry, well she quit.  Ms. Kent, you know she had a family member pass away and now she's got a pneumonia...."

It just went on and on and on.

"If y'all can eat with your classes in the cafeteria....I hate to ask but we have no one to do lunch duty.  You can leave the minute the kids leave at the end of the day if you could just eat in there.....you can wear jeans, too.  Whatever you want.....just come back, okay?'

And then, I got sick.

My phone started blowing up by about ten in the morning.  Texts from multiple people, apologizing, but filled with comments about a mysterious kid that showed up from Venezuela.  Mom didn't speak English.  No one knew what to do and they were using phone apps to communicate with them.  Getting him registered was apparently complicated.   I started looking up what stuff I could find on him from my couch.  The state longitude system wasn't telling me shit but I at least was able to start a transcript request. I came back to work the next day, even though I still felt shitty.  

I walked into the front office to sign-in and saw an anxious looking administrator standing there.

"I don't mean to jump on you right when you walk in but....." her eyes gazed to the left at a little girl and her mom sitting there.

"They're from Panama."

I don't usually get "off the boat" kids.  Most of my students were either born in the United States of immigrant parents or arrived as refugees or asylum seekers when they were less than five years old.  Now, I had two in one week. 

My mom's dog died recently.  I have avoided mentioning it because it is awful.  That is all that I have to say about that.  

"Wagner, your gonna have to help me.  That boy, Rafael, he won't keep his narrow butt in that seat.  He's up, all over the place, all the time.  He even started eating chips in the middle of class."  the meanest teacher in the school announced as soon as I walked through the classroom door.  

I stared at the little boy from Venezuela.  I was still trying to figure out why an eight year-old was placed in fourth grade, but I digress.  I told him quickly in Spanish that he should stay in his seat and not eat in class.   Then I looked back at the teacher, hoping she was satisfied.  

I sat next to the little boy and tried to talk to him a little.   His English was pretty good and his Spanish, obviously beautiful.  I asked him which town he was from in Venezuela.  He answered 'Caracas' like there was no other city in Venezuela.  When I asked him if he missed it, he breathed in deeply and responded 'yes'.  I looked at his clean but dingy short-sleeved white t-shirt and his skinny arms sticking out from it.  Wide, hyper eyes.  Funky street-wise, fake leather falling apart jacket slung over the chair.  Thin Mickey Mouse printed pants that appeared to be pajama bottoms.  And, a huge smile.  

They were just going to have to get used to his narrow butt and show some compassion.  

How the Moon and the Sun Came to Live in the Sky

I saw Ms. Ranier wearily rubbing her face when I entered the front office.

"It's been that kind of day...."  I mentioned, while signing out.

"Girl, yes.  Some kid pooped in the urinal in that bathroom." she said, motioning across the hall.

"AND IT SMELLED TERRIBLE."

"That kid of yours, Melinda, those noises she makes are weird."  I mentioned to Ms. Martin.  I'll be working with my students in her classroom and all I hear are these growling noises coming from Melinda, who is usually seated behind me.  

"Yeah, she's getting better about it in class, but now she does it in the cafeteria.  She waits until it's totally silent and lets out a long snarl."

"He gone, you know.  Bobby gone."

"Wait, what, what do you mean?"

One or two, one or two.  Big Bobby, the guy at the gas station where I buy my beer.  

"What happened?"  I asked.

"Was it bad, what happened?"

"Over there, in that park.  Fentanyl.  He gone."

I looked over at the "Hill Street Beauty Spot", a weird, roadside area across the street from the gas station.  He died there, alone.  The guy that always hung out with my friend that sits in a wheelchair, as if it is a regular chair.  One or two, you gettin' one or two, he asked me for years when I'd pull up. 

"I just saw him."  I responded.

I sat on the dirty floor of my trailer at seven thirty in the morning, rigging my brand new bookshelf back together with wood filler and duct tape.  Then I sort of turned it upside down so the repair was less visible and piled the books back on it.  

I finished reading a folktale to Muriel about how the sun and the moon came to live in the sky.  Water visited their house and pushed them up to the sky after filling the house with itself and sea creatures.  

"So Muriel, what do you think is the message of this story?"  I asked.

"DON'T LET BIG PEOPLE IN YOUR HOUSE!"  she exclaimed.  

"My mom is taking me to see llamas after school today."  one of Muriel's table-mates informed me.

"Oh wow!  That's awesome!  I would love to do that."  I responded.

"I'll ask my mom to call and invite you."  he replied sweetly, and continued working on his paper.  

I got some beer from the gas station.  My friend in the wheelchair wasn't there, no one was.  I cut across a side street behind this church.  Everyone was double parked and a lot of people were in the parking lot.  I realized it was a funeral and shoved our car on the side of the street, ass of it nearly in the intersection.  A Black cop on a motorcycle hissed out, beginning the procession and then, two massive black horses pulled out, dragging a shiny black glass-windowed carriage with a casket inside, adorned with flowers.  A black limo followed and another Black cop on motorcycle closed the gap as men ran into the street, trying to clear the road.  

The horses galloped down Hill Street, headed south, dragging the carriage with the casket behind it.  

*Title derived from Why the Sun and the Moon Live in the Sky

It Was Another Day

"We would like to request mercy from the court, she needs help."  the lawyer requested.  

"Explain the nature of the incident."  the judge responded.

"She arrived to work drunk and a co-worker asked if she could drive her home.  She grabbed the co-worker by the neck, said that she would choke her out and threatened to kill her several times."

I think about that day in court kind of regularly.  It was easy to want mercy for the lady in shackles until you heard the actual thing that she did.  The judge was Republican-appointed and a member of the Federalist Society.   I was stunned when she did just that, showed mercy in sentencing.  

"Did you see Alfred's new haircut?"  Mya asked with a smirk.

Alfred.  The boy who harassed her so terribly.  We never speak his name.

"Yeah."  I responded, before laughing involuntarily.  It really was an awful haircut, unfortunately making a really fucking pervy kid look exactly like a warped penis-head.  

"He had a crush on Mya."  Pway announced.

"Yeah....I heard that."  I answered, shaking my head.  I don't know if I would call sexual harassment a 'crush', but ten year olds don't always know the correct terms.  

"He just needs to close it."  Mya responded.

"Yes, yes he does.  And he better keep it closed."  I answered.

"And, he's never going to get anyone with that hair."  Mya continued.  

We all started laughing.  

"They gonna jump her!"  Demetrius announced as we walked up the hill away from the school.

Here we go again, I thought.  The Hale girls.  I walked up beside the new fifth grade girl.  

"Are they threatening you?"  I mumbled under my breath.

"Yes." she answered.

"She been sayin' all day that she was going to get me on the way home."

The girl pulled out her phone and moments later, a car pulled up at the corner and she jumped inside.  

I didn't even know her name.  I walked back to school and alerted the admin.

The third meanest teacher in the school stepped out of the classroom for a minute.  I was leaning over Mario's desk, trying to help him with some classwork when I heard it.

"Hey, cómo está?"  a kid said mockingly to the class.

Mario and I locked eyes.  Is this what we thought it was?

"Ching chong, ching chong!"  another kid seconded.  

"That's racist."  a third kid announced.

"Stop."

They continued.  

I cornered the boys with the third meanest teacher.  She ripped into them, inches from their faces, while I stood impotently behind her.  They tried to say they didn't do anything.

"Get over here!"  she yelled to the kid that had tried to stop the comments.

"What'd they say?"  she yelled.

"They were pretending to speak Spanish and then they started saying 'ching chong'."  he said, matter of factly.

"He was directing it at them,"  he continued, motioning to Mya and Pway.

"They think that they are Chinese and that they talk like that."  he finished, before shrugging and sitting back down. 

Sun came up it was another day

And the sun went down

You were blown away....

I sat in the dark club on a Tuesday night, listening to the sad lyrics sail through the air, all while trying not to feel sad. 

Why'd you ever let it get that far.....

The new fifth grader was standing next to me at the front of the walker line.  She usually kept her distance, it is not exactly the coolest thing for a new fifth grader to be hanging around teachers, especially not the white one.  

"Are your people coming for you again today?"  I asked quietly.

"No.  My uncle gotta work.  No one will be home 'til later."  

"Stay close to me.  I'll walk your way but pretend I'm not with you."

She nodded quickly back at me, eyes darting away.  

She walked about ten feet ahead of me and the three Hale girls hovered directly behind me.  An angry mom stood at the top of the hill, waiting for the middle Hale girl that had been harassing her daughter.  As we got closer, the mom mumbled,  "Get in the car.  I gotta work." and drove away.

As we breached the top of the hill, I took a right and kept walking toward the new girl's house.  The other harassee passed by, screaming "YOU UGLY!!!!" at the Hale girls from the window of her mom's car.  

"Ms. Wagner, why you walking so far?"  the oldest Hale called.

"Seems like a nice day for a walk."  I answered.

"Naw, why don't you go back to the school?"  she responded, a tight smile on her face.

"I'm good."  I answered and kept walking.

I made the right turn where the Hale girls were supposed to turn left.  They followed us to the right.  

"Aren't you guys going the wrong way?"  I asked, stalling a little while the new girl gained more ground and got closer to her house.  

Finally, the Hale girls ran back in the direction of their house.  I stood at the top of the street until the new girl waved from her driveway, not leaving until there was no way the Hale girls could catch up with her.  

I stood in Paw Ku's backyard late on a Friday afternoon.  Bway Pa was sailing by on the swing, smiling and taking pictures of herself in her dark sunglasses.  Kaw ran by, pulling his shirt up, threatening to show us his "six pack" while he chased Angel and Paw Ku's little brother.  Hyoo played with his little sister and cousin, all with plastic, glow-in-the dark vampire teeth glowing in the late afternoon sun.  Their tongues were all blue and red from the ring pops they ate.  A strong, pungent smell of fermented fish poured from the house as Paw Ku's mom picked Thai chilis from a one of the many vegetable-bearing bushes in the yard.  We fed the cats lemon pepper chicken wings and hula hooped.

It was a beautiful afternoon.  

*Title and lyrics, Drunken Angel, Lucinda Williams 

Let it Snow

"Hey. Lindsey says the Hale girls are going to beat her up after school."  a co-worker told me.

I looked back at her.  I was waiting with my dismissal line of walkers.  What the fuck was I supposed to do about that?

We walked up the hill.  I saw all three Hale girls surround Lindsey, but when they saw me see them, they disbursed.  

"Get up here."  I hissed at Lindsey.

"I'm afraid to walk home."  she responded, once she was by my side.

"Hey!"  Demetrius yelled.

"They sayin' they going to beat her up, they're going to wait until they get around the corner so you can't see."  he continued.

I kept walking.  I got them to the corner and turned around.  One of my bosses had explicitly told me to let this shit lie, that what happens after the corner is their parents' problem.  I caught Mr. C two minutes later.

"The Hale girls are going to jump Lindsey.  I don't know what to do."

"I'm going over there."  he answered, pulling his keys from his pocket and walking to his car.  

"They were in her driveway!"  he announced, as soon as he pulled back in.

"And you know, they live the other way.  You should have seen their faces when I pulled up.  I told them they better not be doing what I know they were doing and they left."

Donor's Choose was matching donations for "equity schools", aka, schools like mine that are majority minority and poor.  I quickly launched my project, asking for hundreds of dollars of new books for my classroom library and a new bookshelf to hold them.  Then, I turned my Facebook into a beggar's station, repeatedly re-posting my project and soliciting my friends to throw me a few bucks.  I threw myself a few bucks, more than I would like to say, mainly to get the funds matched before they ran out.  Alec shucked in, too.  

My school has adopted a reading focus this year, which I think is great.  They have been conducting PLs on how to do guided reading and remarkably, bought each teacher a classroom library of diverse books.  I attended my collaborative planning when they unleashed the books.  I watched the overview that entailed the diversity of the new books highlighting Black and Hispanic children.  I started shifting around a little.  Where were the diverse books about Asian kids?  They are one of the largest rising minorities in my school and the group receiving the most hate.  And no, they aren't Chinese or Japanese.  They are refugees.  Burmese, Karen, even Khmer.  The kids yell "ching chong" at them and the girls even face additional sexual harassment.  IN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL.  

I helped unload the boxes of books into the various classrooms.  At least five boxes each, phonics books, literary texts and even little bins to hold them in.
"Man, this must of cost a small fortune."  I muttered to the admin helping us.
"Girl, yes.  This is thirty thousand dollars worth of books."  she answered.  

And...you know how many books were allotted to me, to my classroom?  Zero.  Not one.  

"Ms. Wagner....can you help me with my homework?"  

I looked at my phone to see who was texting me.   It said "Paw Ku's mom" from my contacts.

"BTW, this is Paw Ku."  the second text read.

We texted back and forth, with her sending pictures of this brutal 6th grade math homework.  Alec and I were trying to figure it out until after nine one night and the next night, I even enlisted Mr. Warren.

"I think the answer to number two is four."  he texted back.

"But I got a buddy who teaches 11th grade math, let me get him in on this."

Finally, Paw Ku face-timed me.  It was so good to see her.

"Ms. Wagner!"  she said, as she usually starts sentences.  

"I miss elementary school.  But middle school, it's okay."

I smiled into the phone.

"How is Kaw, is he doing okay?"

"Yes, he is."  she answered.

"But, he might move where his niece moved.  And, there is a girl that's like way taller than him that likes him."  she continued.

I burst out laughing.  

She put her little brother on the call, the one I now teach with my kindergarten group.  We talked a long time.  It is really hard letting them go.  

 

A torrent of Michoacan Spanish poured from the mother's mouth.  Jaime's mom was pissed.  

"Those girls!  They follow Jaime and yell groserías at him and one of them hit him in the head last week!  There are three of them and one of them is grandote!  They bang on our door, begging for snacks, like I would give them anything!"  

It was one day after the Lindsey incident.

"Mire, esas chicas son locas.  La mamá, también."  I answered.

I didn't even tell her that mom nearly got in a fight with another mom in the front office last week.

"Es ridículo.  No sé que decir.  Voy a contarles a mis jefas.  Pero si no puede venir Ud. a caminar con él, lo haré.  Voy a llevarle a casa."  I continued.

"Oye?" she asked Jaime.  

"Espera la maestra.   She is going to take you home tomorrow." 

I walked through the neighborhood the following afternoon, not because of Jaime, but because of a different situation with a child.  She held my hand and trotted along, with a lollipop sticking out of her mouth.  

It was a really pretty afternoon.  

Verde y Malverde

"Ms. Wagner....that kid of yours, Hot Rod, he touching people's butts again."  an administrator announced while I walked through the door after dismissal.  
"Yeah, I'm sorry.  I keep telling him to stop."
"He called another kid the N word, too."
"What?!"  I exclaimed.
"He said that the other kid said something anti-Asian, so, you know."  she said with a shrug.  
"Hey, wait... "  she continued.
"It wasn't Hot Rod, it was that other kid you have...Adam that said it."  

"I'm sorry."  I responded.  

"I'm gonna get Ms. Wagner to call your mama!"  the second meanest teacher in the school screamed at a Hispanic kid while I fled her classroom to go to my next class.  

It really didn't matter that he wasn't one of my students.  Or that his mom speaks English.  He was Hispanic-y looking, so, you know, must not speak English!

I had to go to court the other day.  It's kind of a long story that I might tell you one day.  Or maybe not.  At the courthouse, we ended up watching a series of criminal trials that were scheduled before ours.  All of the defendants were walked into the courtroom via a side door.  They wore jail jumpsuits.  Their feet were shackled and their arms attached to a chain that encircled their waists.  I felt grotesque sitting in the back of the courtroom, watching what was none of my business and probably one of the least pleasant days of their lives.  

In the hallway during dismissal, one teacher started beatboxing and a second followed.  I spun around to see Mauricio, dancing and shaking it in the middle of both lines of walkers.  Everyone was cheering and I could not stop laughing.  
Ku turned and shrieked.

"Hey, we got a social work referral to the county 'cuz of Hot Rod.  He grabbed a girl's butt and mom said it was sexual harassment."
I stared back.
"Yeah, I know it's stupid."  she responded.
He's five.  He grabs everyone's ass.  I think he touched mine, too.  It is not right, but it is not sexual.  

I watched a co-worker tiptoe around the corner, eyes wide as if in a horror movie.  She froze and pointed at the parents we were meeting from approximately twenty feet away.  I glanced over at the couple, wondering if one of them had sprouted a third head that I hadn't noticed.  No, they didn't, I verified.  They were just well, a different ethnicity than my co-worker.  I really can't say much else.  But I can say that I was ashamed, ashamed of her and mortified to be working with someone who feels this way and has no qualms about broadcasting it.  If there had been a "NOT WITH HER" sign I could have hung around my neck, I would have.  

"Hey, open that little red box on my desk."  I instructed Muriel.
"You might like what is in there."
She opened it up and looked at the candy and Halloween spider-rings inside.  She walked back with three.
"One if for you."  she announced, as if I couldn't take any of the ones I wanted.  
"And this one if for your dog."

"And this one is for me."

*Title, José Cota

No lo entiendo

"What is that in your pocket, Adrian?"  I only asked because my little kids get in trouble for bringing toys to school and I wanted to help him hide them somewhere else before anyone saw.

"They're for us!"  he hiss-whispered, eyes darting from side to side as he clandestinely shoved the brightly colored objects into his pocket before raking the zipper shut.  

Later, myself and the rest of my now first grade, ESOL Good Men sported matching pipe-cleaner bracelets.  Just us. 

I glanced over at Hot Rod while I tried to collect the walkers during my afternoon duty.  Both of his hands were pulling his shorts straight up over his crotch, kind of like a front-wedgie.  His mouth dragged horizontally into a wide snarl, silver teeth gleaming. 

"Booty!"  he growled with delight.

"BOOOTY"

A friend from my former school district retired and donated boxes of books and school supplies to my classroom.  Really nice stuff, glittery pencils, multi-colored erasers, fidget spinners, high-end folders, just opening that box filled me with delight.  I decided to show it to Muriel, it was just her and me in the trailer and I really wanted one of the kids to see it.  I planned to put it all in school supply pouches and give each kid a bag, but hadn't gotten to it yet.  I really wanted to show someone.  Her eyes widened when the lid came off of the box.  

"Why don't you pick out some things?"  I asked.

"I was going to give you some later, but why don't you take some stuff that you like now?"  I asked excitedly.

She ran her hand lightly over the supplies in the box, eyes glowing.

"No." she answered.  

I looked at her with confusion.

"I think....I think you should save them for the kids, you know, the kids that really need them...."

The kids that really need them.....I looked at her worn, donated clothes.   I remembered her "All About Me" first grade project that she tried to hide from the rest of the class.  I worked on it with her, hoping we could make something that she would be proud of.  When I asked her what she wanted to do when she was older, I know, weird question for a first grader but we were using a template, she said "Work with the guys".  I was baffled until I found out that her father, a refugee, worked with newly arrived refugees.  The guys.  I looked at her clumpy hair, unadorned with cute braids and beads. But Muriel has something invaluable,  something that can't be given or taught, something better than a hot pink eraser.   

I had a moment the other day.  Work has been hard, harder than it should be this early in the school year.  I came home and went into our room and closed the doors and sat on our bed.  I thought of the teachers that don't want to teach my students.  They look at my them with narrow, suspicious eyes and pursed lips, while stating in hushed, harsh whispers I don't think she speaks English, eyes darting around as if a ship full of extraterrestrials just landed on the playground.  

You think they don't speak English, but you haven't actually....spoken to them?  A kid in your class?  A kid on your caseload?

She needs some kind of special school...we can't serve her here.....wait, how do you say her name again, wait, how?

I repeat myself, though the names aren't difficult.

I don't think I can say that...how?

I see the paperwork and the names are wrong.  All Hispanic children do not have the last name 'Lopez'. 

"Oh Ms. Wagner....is that little Asian boy really covered in ....pox?"  I was asked.

"No.  NO!  He is home because of an allergic reaction, he has a bug bite on his lip and it swelled.  HE DOES NOT HAVE ANY TYPE OF POX."

"But I heard it was all over him....all over his face....."

"It's not.  It is one bite.  There is a picture.  IT IS NOT POX."

I started thinking about the day I walked past the pre-k line and heard a teacher calling to me, jogging up to me.  "Are you taking them?" she asked, breathlessly.  I turned in confusion and saw a Hispanic child and an Asian child standing there, children I have never met. Clearly must not speak English!

"What happened to Mya?"  I asked one of the counselors.

"She was being harassed, it was pretty bad."  she answered.  

"Racist stuff?"  I responded.

"Yeah, the Asian stuff but sexual, too.  Really vile.  She was so embarrassed she wouldn't even repeat what he said.  We had to get other kids to tell us."

Mya usually waves at me from the bus while I walk back to school from my afternoon duty.  I watched her bus go by that afternoon.  Her head was lowered and pressed to the seat in front of her.  No one was sitting beside her.  

I thought about the second meanest teacher in the whole school yelling at one of my new students for not raising his hand before getting up and asking her a question.  At the end of her commentary, she leaned in an inch from his face.

"COMPRENDE?"  she screamed.  

I was crying a lot.  I know it's stupid.  I would try to stop thinking about it and only think of it again.  I know what you might say.  That place is horrible.  You should quit.  But what good would that do?  How would it help?  Would it really change anything if I just wasn't there?