Lady Luck (that's me)

So I went to Paris, Rome and Florence, and the only part you're going to hear about is the airplane ride. This is due partially to the fact that two of my three sisters have boyfriends and this automatically gave them more computer time on the trip. I tried to argue that my roommates were kind of like boyfriends that you weren't attracted to but that held no water. It is due secondly to the fact that my memory isn't the sharpest, and unfortunately the return trip is the only thing I can recount with details/complete accuracy.

I left my family at the Charles de Gaulle Aeroporte in Paris to board my separate plane to my hometown. I arrived at the gate just a few minutes before boarding and spent that time scanning the crowd that would be my traveling companions for the next nine hours. My scan registered two things immediately:

1. There were a surprising amount of attractive men heading to Philadelphia that day.
2. This flight was going to be a lot more crowded than my trip there, where I had an entire row to stretch out and read (The Help, which you should read too!)

I boarded close to the beginning, so I watched the passengers file through the aisle beside me, imagining who might take the vacant seat to my right. Maybe the tall, tanned blondish guy with the sharp jawline and white button-down. Or perhaps you, Mr. Brown Curly Hair and Blue Eyes. They both glanced down with a quick smile and moved on. That's OK though, because we still had the tall, dark-complected Italian and the good-looking businessman to go.

"Oh really?" they'd say, leaning closer to my armrest. "You teach middle school? Fascinating. I don't want to bother you, but I'm dying to get your insight on the pre-adolescent psyche."

"Gadsden? As in Alabama? What an exciting metropolis to grow up in! Such a hub of culture and art, evoking images of Scott Fitzgerald's opulent settings...Tell me, what was it like coming of age in such a high-brow society? How did that shape your feelings of self-worth?"

My fantasies came to a screeching halt as a middle-aged, fat frenchman politely gestured for me to allow him into his seat.

I type "fat frenchman" with a frown on my face. When we travel abroad, my family often wonders what it is about Americans that screams, well...AMERICA. It takes me longer to recognize myself in a mirror than it does for the locals to pick us out of a crowd. Over the past few trips, we've narrowed down a few key giveaways for the men at least:

1. baggy t-shirts
2. lack of man-purse
3. chunky-soled tennis shoes
4. shorts (unless they are tight and denim)
5. loosely-fitting khakis
6. (and most importantly) OBESITY

Weight is the dead giveaway. Being skinny or average doesn't guarantee you European, but being overweight automatically makes you American. Which is why this French man's obesity caught me off guard.

Sadly, I moved into the aisle so he could claim his seat. MY seat. Businessman's seat. Curly-head's seat. Swallowing my disappointment, I studied him out of the corner of my eye. His hair was cut very short (or buzzed very long?), and he had put enough product in it to make it stick out in thousands of tiny black clumps over his head. They stood stiff like trees dotting a forest floor of pale, shiny flesh. He had on small wire glasses, and though it was freezing in the plane, beads of sweat were already collecting on his forehead and nose. A silver chain dug into his fleshy neck, dressing up a monochromatic outfit of a baggy beige t-shirt and pants that stopped shy of his ankles. The color of his clothes differed only a couple of shades from his skin, making the wispy black hair on his arms contrast startlingly. I watched as he opened his man-purse and pulled out a video camera. He turned it on and began filming the TV screen in front of us. You know, the one that shows the map of where you are and where you're going. Though the little red plane sat motionless in Paris, he filmed for a solid minute before standing up to slowly pan the plane behind him. I crouched down further in my seat, not wanting to make an appearance in his documentary.

"Oh, look," he'd say to his mother upon his return. "That was le skinny Americaine bitch who sat in the seat beside me. The seat reserved for the attractive lady in the blue pantsuit or the hot redhead in pink!"

No sooner had we reached our cruising altitude was the frenchman tapping me on my shoulder. "Ehhm, es-cuse me," he said with a smile. I put my tray up, took my blanket off, marked my spot in my book, unplugged my earphones, unbuckled, moved into the aisle and allowed him to pass by to go to the bathroom. Two minutes later, I repeated the process again to let him back in.

Three and a half hours into the trip, I'd already watched the only two movies on the flight's list that appealed to me, so now I began ranking the remaining films in order of "Which Movie I'd Dislike the Least." My eyes rested on "Dear John." This movie is inspired by a book by one of my least favorite authors ever, Nicholas Sparks (who also wrote The Notebook, which was turned into my least favorite movie ever). "NO." I said silently. "Absolutely not."

Channing Tatum gazed imploringly back at me from the screen. "But why not?"

"Because, Channing. It's a slippery slope. If I choose you, the next thing I know I'll be watching Miley Cyrus murder her role in 'The Last Song.'"

Fast-forward 45 minutes. Channing Tatum and Amanda Seyfried's relationship has advanced to the point in the movie where they're about to do it in a barn. Typical Nicholas-Sparks-style. Rain. Rustic Setting. Carefully-choreographed sex. At this point, Frenchie gets interested. I've managed to forget about him for the past hour, but now I notice him edging closer. "HEY!" I want to scream at him. "This is my screen! You've got yer own screen right in front of you so quit lookin' at mine!" I start to panic a little. These scenes already make me slightly uncomfortable, I don't want to share the experience with a strange man. As Amanda undresses Channing, his arm makes contact with mine and I cringe. COULD THIS GET ANY MORE AWKWARD?? The next 180 seconds creep by agonizingly, then it's over. Frenchie moves back into his space. I let out a breath. Now I'M the one with sweat on my forehead.

Let it be said: I'm not a huge stickler for personal space. I'll sit too close to you on the couch and touch your arm when I talk to you. I'd rather be in a crowded room than an empty room and would have graduated high school still sleeping in my sister's bed had she not kicked me out when I was 14 because I liked to snuggle up beside her. That being clearly stated, THIS MAN KNEW NO LIMITS. When he stood up to adjust his socks, his ass was flush to my face. When he stretched his arms, his fingers dangled in my hair. When he tried to reach down and grab his pillow from the floor, he grabbed my ankle instead. At this point, I wouldn't have been surprised if he had just gone with it and stretched it up to rest his head on.

Several hours and two movies later, I was watching Miley Cyrus chase raccoons across the screen (damn you, Channing Tatum) when I felt frenchman's breasts on my shoulder. I looked up to see him stooping over me, smiling enthusiastically toward the bathroom. "Eh...I hef to-"

"OKAY!!" I interrupted with matched enthusiasm. I did NOT want to know what he hed to do in there. As with the first time, he took his man-purse with him. Quoi? Was he going to film the inside of the bathroom? Or was he afraid I was going to steal it?

Not long before the flight ended, frenchman's son (?) leaned over our seats to converse. "Washgkak aiue ksjhfiuh alkj ueh gye asiufe useb ufiej!"

"Heh. Heh. Heh. Wodijf woijs lkjoei kju wiuv bu diw kjhi aiuhe jbhoasiuhf iuhwekjhbi oeuhs sioeij!!" his father answered from his comfy seat in my lap.

After the plane landed, I gathered my stuff and waited for a break in the line beside me. The blonde guy walked past talking over his shoulder to a pretty brunette. "Well, it was SO nice to meet you! This would have been a long flight without you. I'm serious, call me the next time you're here for the weekend!"

I'm goin' to French, y'all!!

So, the real reason why I was really hesitant to start a blog was because I thought it a little presumptuous to think that people would be interested in my day-to-day life. Sure, I thought it was important that I went to the grocery store today, but does anyone else really care? Let's be serious. In the amount of time you wasted reading about my grocery store "adventure," you could have had one of your own.

What happened? I got an interesting job surrounded by even more interesting people and basically couldn't help myself. And since a small part of me still really wants you care about my grocery shopping, it's summer and I'm still writing.

My summer so far can pretty much be summed up in three letters:

No, not GTL.

TLC.

And by that I mean the TV channel. Not Tender, Loving Care. Or the 90s musical group.

Is that too pathetic?

What about PBR?

Still terrible? OK I'm done. Not many people are still in town, so I haven't done much of anything...

...UNTIL NOW.

This time next week: BRITE LITES, BIG CITY. Paris! Rome! Oh my gawsh it's the Eyeful Tower, y'all! Was that the pope!? But the best part about it is who I'll be traveling with.

George Clooney.

Whaa? Huh? Ok, my FAMILY. Let me just preface by saying this:

Thank God my parents didn't stop having kids after me. They don't know the massive favor they did me by adding--not one, not two--but THREE more girls to our family. I might not have known it all along, and I definitely haven't always appreciated it, but as of late my suspicions have been confirmed:

My sisters are the coolest people in the world.

I can not imagine what family trips would look like as an only child, nor do I want to. My built-in best friends are the best traveling companions you could ask for! From my age to the youngest, there's only a six-year difference, and this is the first big family trip we've taken since we've all been adults...did I just say that? We are not adults. And we'll prove it to you. Stay tuned...

Jessica Biel Gets On My Nerves.

The title has nothing to do with the following account, but I just thought I'd slip that in there, on account of I just read an interview with her where she claims, "Being very beautiful is...difficult. In terms of how you're perceived, people's expectations of you. Sometimes that's all they see."

mmk, Jessica. We'll take yer word for it.

ANYWAYS. Yesterday I decided to go to the mall north of town. It has several stores in it that our local (really expensive) mall lacks. It was strange driving right past the exit to my school; I hadn't been up this way since school got out almost a month (!) ago. Then it dawned on me. There was a good possibility that I could actually see one of my kids there. Remember this post? This is the mall that they were referring to every single Monday.

Bracing myself, I parked the car at the far entrance and walked toward the doors. "Please don't let me see a student, please don't let me see a st--" No sooner had the thought entered my mind, the doors slid open and there stood Jemon. I mean, RIGHT in the doorway, unavoidable, like he'd been waiting on me. A look of fear seized him and he froze, eyes locked on mine. Deer stuck in the headlight? No. His expression far exceeded that territory. It probably resembled the look on Regan MacNeil's mom's face when she crabwalked down the stairs or the mourners when Lazarus' four-day-old corpse rose from the dead: a delicate balance of terror and wonder.

There's nothing like an unexpected run-in with a teacher outside the classroom walls, is there? (Oh yes there is and it's called an unexpected run-in with a STUDENT outside the classroom walls--why is this so uncomfortable??)

"Hey Jemon!" I said, a little over-excitedly.

"Hey." he mumbled in return. I'd never seen him look more embarrassed. In fact, he's probably one of the most confident boys I taught.

"Is that your teacher?" an older girl asked him.

WHY DID SHE ASK THAT?? HOW DID SHE KNOW THAT?? Do I LOOK like a teacher!?! Sound like a teacher?! Or...far worse...DRESS like a teacher??

Moving on.

Jemon grinned awkwardly, nodded, and looked away. I hadn't stopped moving, but kind of had to walk around him at this point. It sort of felt like I needed to make at least a little bit of small talk, considering I'd spent every day with him for nine months and hadn't seen him in one..."Havin' a good summer?" I meekly attempted.

Another awkward grin/nod/glance away one-two punch was my only response. "Mmmkay well...buh-bye now!"

Sheesh. I spent the rest of my shopping trip ducking in terror every time I caught sight of a teenaged black dude in my peripheral.

putting the good in good-bye

I looooove being a teacher.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking: "This fool has complained all year long about her job. At least half of her posts involve tears. If being melodramatic was at all useful in the educational field, she would have won Teacher of the Effing Century back in September."

Well, you're right.

But as I sit here typing this, I can see from my bed a desk free of all papers and planners. Where text books and workbooks once rested, David Sedaris, J.D. Salinger, Fitzgerald and Rick Bragg now smile back at me. That's because yesterday I threw away the massive stack of ungraded papers cluttering my workspace. Just THREW THEM AWAY. My gosh, it was like I actually threw away all the bad memories from last year and lost ten pounds in the process. There's nothing like starting fresh is there?

.....Which is what I did with my pantry today--after I threw away all the expired stuff, 409-ed the hell out of it, installed new shelves and organized staples into categories. I've walked by and opened the door about five times just to look in and pat myself on the back. Each time I do, I catch a whiff of gumbo--which we began cooking six hours ago and finished simmering two hours ago. My baseboards are clean, my dog is walked, my eyebrows are plucked. These are all things that completely fell by the wayside...oh...six months ago.

In case you haven't figured it out yet, IT IS SUMMER. While my friends used to complain about their jobs, I'd bite my tongue not to be the obnoxious one-upper (Oh, your lunch break got cut down to an hour and you no longer have the time to make it to La Petite Gargotte for brunch specials?? I had to eat cafeteria beanies and weenies because someone PISSED in my tupperware.). I can now lend a sympathetic ear...then get back to my book. I can sleep late, go to the pool, travel and shop--all during the middle of the day!! True, you'll more likely find me organizing my closet or doing laundry, but the option is there! And I am loving every minute of my home improvements and midday errands. I'm free as a bird and happy as a lark. And I love. My. Job.

The last day of school was very anti-climatic. I am one of the most sentimental people you'll come across, so I had envisioned tearful goodbyes, meaningful conversations, remorseful students apologizing for their abuse, kids clinging to my skirts...you know, something along the lines of this:

Goodbye
Just substitute "Ms. M" for "Wilson."

NOPE. I didn't really even get to say goodbye to most kids; several of them just kind of stopped coming the last week. I brought a disposable camera and took pictures of myself with all my boys, but that got stolen in fourth block. When the final bell rang, I stood in my ransacked room and felt...I don't know. Not sad. Not happy. Kind of sad that I wasn't sad? I would miss some of those boys, but that was tempered with the relief I felt to have my first year behind me. More than anything it was strange. I spent more time with those kids than I did with anyone else this year--my family, my friends, my dog...I saw them every. single. day. They saw me at my worst , at my best on my good days, and all the days in between. And there were a lot of them. Now, I wouldn't be seeing them at all--several of them probably ever again. I wonder if teachers ever get used to that feeling.

I will always wonder about those boys...where they ended up...who they became...

Rosie and Ananias did call me last Saturday night. I didn't recognize the number but picked up anyway.

"Ms. M? It's Rosamuel. We over at Ananias house. We wanted to say hey."

"Yeah, Ms. M. This Ananias and guess what. Brittany dumped me."

I laughed. "Sorry to hear that, Ananias. Maybe you won't be so cocky anymore though."

"I am NOT cocky. I jus' know I look good. But we gotta go, we'll talk to you later."

It's funny. I know that when I look back on this experience I'll forget most of its heartache and growing pains and use words like "fun," "exciting" when I recount it. That's just the way it usually goes.

And I'm left with only one nagging question:
Now that my life is back to the mundane...What the HECK do I do with this blog??

What do you think?

Out With a Bang! and a Potted Plant

I'm sorry I've taken a hiatus from blogging (I know all three of you have been waiting with bated breath). Mostly, I just haven't felt like writing. Usually when I don't feel like writing, I read back over what I wrote and hate, hate, HATE it. I can't say what I mean and I don't want to ruin the poignancy of the moments themselves by describing them inadequately. However, I am not even CLOSE to being a perfectionist in any other areas of my life, and I know that when I check my dear friends' blogs and they haven't written (Lindsey, SCO, Megan, Sara, Erica...), it's like I've come to visit them and knocked on their doors and they aren't at home. Sad! So here we go.

A lot of bad has happened since the last entry. I could tell you about how Rashee went to jail. I could tell you how and why I ended up in my boss's office two weeks ago sobbing hysterically. I could tell you about the racial tensions that have mounted among our staff lately or the increasing difficulty of getting my kids to do anything at the end of the year. But frankly, I don't want to.

I've actually got some good things to share--so I'm going to seize the opportunity!

The EOG retest was two weeks ago. The weekend before, several of them were freaking out--Rosamuel being among them. "Ms. M! Imma haf to get with you. Like, I need help. I FAILED that thang [he got a 1]!"

"Rosie, I can tutor you Saturday morning if you think that would help."

"You gon' come to my house and pick me up?"

"Well...if your dad says that's ok...then I guess I could."

So Saturday found me: pulling up into Rosie's dad's driveway getting strange looks from the kids playing basketball at the dead end. Whaat? Not too often a blonde in a car with a UA sticker and a sorority decal drop by here? After we got to the school and practiced some test questions Rosamuel pleaded with me to give him some study materials to take home, so I printed them off and took him back to his house.

Later that night, I was on the phone with Mark, quizzing him and reviewing him in a last-ditch effort to get his scores where they needed to be as well. Rosie beeped in. "Yes?"

"Uh...I lost the stuff."

"You lost the study stuff? How did y--never mind. I'll just email them to you. What's your email address. [Silence] Rosie?? What's your email?"

"...ummm I can't tell you that."

"Why not? I'll just send them to you and you can print them off. I'm not going to start emailing you on the reg."

"No...it's not that...it's just...my email address nasty. I can't tell you."

"Rosamuel. It can't be that terrible. I promise I'll overlook it this once--but you've GOT to study tonight."

"I really can't."

"Okayyyy. Fine. I'll email Norman and get him to forward it to you. That'll work?"

"Naww I gotta idea I'll just make a new email."

I sighed. "Whatever."

Well, I got the retest scores back last Thursday and.....

....fifteen (FIFTEEN!) more students passed the second time around! Norman passed! De'Angelo passed! D'Angelo passed! Dazia passed! Dwight passed! Mark passed!! ROSAMUEL passed!!! I really couldn't believe it. I am unbelievably proud--especially of those who reached out for extra help and put in the work.

Last Tuesday was the 8th grade awards ceremony, where we got to celebrate all of these accomplishments. Mr. E, the Assistant Principal, stood up and told the crowd of 300 students and 100 parents all about RMS' achievements this year--how we've increased our pass rates in every subject. He paused to share that 8th grade science had the most growth this year of all tested subjects--jumping 36 percentage points from last year! God is good.

After the opening words and songs, teachers began to give their academic awards. We went by team, and after each team of teachers presented their awards, one of the students from their team would perform. After team A's teachers presented, one of their girls rapped. After team D's teachers, a girl sang. The time came for our team to present. We all gave awards (mine a little shakily) and then sat down, leaving me to wonder which of our students was going to perform and what he was doing. Apparently, I had either forgotten or hadn't paid attention during that conversation. Ms. F returned to the podium. "Team C is going to do something a little different. We're going to recognize a teacher. " I smiled. It was Mr. K and Mr. L's last year at RMS, and we were going to send them off with some well-deserved praise. Ms. F held up a plant. "This," she said, "has been in my room all year. And it's been through a lot. Somehow though, it's still alive. And it's still growing. With that being said, I'm going to hand it over to some of our boys."

Jordan, Jemon, Norman, Will, Rosamuel, and Kia came forward, smiling. They took the plant and the mic, then turned around to the row of teachers. "MIIIIIIIIIISSSS M!" Will began. My face fell. Whaat? 400 eyes bored into my forehead. "This has been a interesting year!" Will continued. "You been through a lot your first year at RMS. We messed with you. We argued with you. We made you upset. And sometimes, we just plain BAD. But you stayed with us and you still worked hard an' we wanna thank you for that." Will looked over his shoulder and grinned at me as I walked forward to claim my plant. My boys. My sweet boys. With a goofy smile plastered to my face and tears brimming in my eyes, I started down the line, throwing my arms around them. "Wait Ms. M! We not through!" I awkwardly stood beside them as Jemon took the microphone from Will.

"Ms. M, we put her through h--a lot this year. I mean I don't know how she still standin' up here with us. I don't even know how she can stand to be in the same room as us! I'da left a long time ago. But she a trooper."

Rosamuel took the mic. "I got a one on the science test the first time I took it," he told the crowd. "But...Ms. M, she came and picked me up on Saturday an' she help me study an' I made a three on it last time, so I wanna thank her for dat."

Kia: "MS. M!!!" he addressed me--almost accusingly. "We had our ups and downs this year. We made each other mad, we argued...We ESPECIALLY hit a rough patch this quarter when you wouldn't let me do something [here he stopped to give me a meaningful look] and I did anyway and you wrote me up and I couldn't go to the social!" I laughed. "Well...I guess at the end I still wanted you to know....I love you. And I hope next year's class ain't NEAR as good as we are."

The whole crowd burst into "AWWWWW"s and applause while I again blinked back tears and gave each of them a huge hug. As I stood on my tiptoes so my arms could reach around Kia's neck, it struck me that we were more comrades than anything else. I never fully gained their respect this year as an authority or a superior, and hugging him I understood why--with more clarity than I'd been able to all year. The picture of me straining to reach Kia's eye-level was a pretty accurate representation of my struggle with him and the rest of my students. For nine months, I grew up with these boys. I learned alongside them. I had come to teach them, show them a world outside their neighborhood. I might have done a little of that, but I can say with much more conviction that they taught me, showed me a world outside my own. I was going to challenge them, push them...instead I found myself being challenged and pushed farther than I thought I could go. Hopefully next year will be different and I can establish some respect, but for now I'll accept this as a massive character-building experience. And a lesson in humility.

After I'd made my teary rounds, I looked up into the now familiar faces of the boys I'd come to know so well. Only ten years and a couple of inches separated us. They have a long way to go, and so have I. Their way will paved with much more difficulties than mine. I can only hope that they'll emerge gracefully, unscarred, not jaded, successfully. I'll always wonder...

A sweet day. I think I might could do this forever.

Then I go to school Wednesday and immediately remember why I can't WAIT until June 10.

Parlez de quoi??

Brandon is twelve years old. He comes up almost to my shoulder and has dreads way past his own. He is a light-skinned boy with the most beautiful long lashes you've ever seen on a dude. The only thing that mars his otherwise perfect face is a deep gash that runs across his upper lip.

"What happened there, Brandon?"

"Aww I hate it when people ask me that! The doctor accidentally did that when I was gettin' born."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I think it looks kind of cool though. You could tell people you got it during a sword fight."

"Now why on EARTH would I go around tellin' that kinda foolish lie?"

I spend every afternoon from about 3:45 to 4:00 with Brandon. He is a car-rider, and my after-school duty post is in the car-riders' lot. For some reason, he's latched on to me since the first day I was out there. Since he is in 6th grade now, I'll probably never teach him--which is a good thing despite how fond I've grown of his crazy self.

By crazy I do mean...crazy. He tells me all about his aunt Whitney Houston and how he and his momma go visit her in Atlanta on the weekends. He gives bizarre nicknames to all the regulars in the parking lot (my favorite of which is "BIG JUICY," referring to a large 7th-grader who wears way too much lipgloss). Unprovoked, he chases other kids around the schoolyard, throwing sticks and rocks. He listens to old gospel music on his mp3 player and sings along loudly, not caring who hears.

Most of the time I leave before Brandon's ride gets to school, so the last thing I see in the rearview mirror is my little terror forlornly sitting on the curb tugging his dreads.

"If your daddy's in jail and your mom works during the day...who picks you up after school?" I asked him one day.

"The Lord." he replied solemnly.

"Hmm. Does the Lord know that school gets out at 4:00?"

"The Lord is all-knowing and om-NI-PO-TENT...HALLELUJAH!!!"

Even though I've spent probably around 36 hours with Brandon since last August, I'm never fully prepared for his response to anything. One day I swung open the door and took a step outside to be immediately greeted by his wide-eyed face. He grabbed my arm and blurted out in one giant breath:

"You know you have some very white teeth. Are you a mistress? You know what is mistress is? A mistress is someone who's married but she goes around havin' SEX with other people who are married too!"

This is all before the door has even closed behind me.

Friday, as I was pulling out of the parking lot, Brandon sprinted up to my car and tapped urgently on the window. I rolled it down.

"Has anyone ever UR-IN-ated on yo car?"

"Not to my knowledge, Brandon. Have a wonderful weekend."

What's a number?

100. The percentage of EOGs that my students are supposed to pass to move on to high school
50. To receive an "on grade level" mark (a three), you must answer this percent of the test correctly.
40%. Number of 8th graders that had to pass the Science EOG to reach our school's growth goal.
45. Percentage of my 8th graders who passed the Science EOG.
20. Number of students out of 23 who passed the Science EOG in my first block.
3. The number of students who passed out of my 4th block.
15. Students of mine who scored ABOVE grade level (a four) in Science.

How do I feel about those numbers?

The glass is half empty.
Students only need to get half of the science questions correct to be on grade level? That speaks volumes, sad volumes about our educational system already. Then the fact that less than half of my kids were able to score half on the test? This test is what we've been working for since Day 1. If they failed, I failed. And more failed than didn't.

The glass is half full.
"You did good," Ms. F said as she peered over my shoulder at the data sheet. "For a first-year teacher? At a school like RMS? You gotta consider what we're working with. You should be proud." I guess my scores were the same as the other teachers--teachers who have much better classroom management and have been teaching for a lot longer. So I can be happy about that. And my first block? I'm so proud of them. Will got a 4. Tariq got a 4. They worked hard for it too. "I'm proud of you, Will," I said as I handed over the envelope. He had come to me during class telling me that the three he got on his practice test wasn't enough. "I want a FOUR!" He asked for study guides and extra help. He worked his butt off the last few weeks. And it paid off. He opened his envelope, beamed, and threw his arms around me. Surprised, I returned his hug and temporarily forgot about the group of students huddled in the corner wiping away tears.

In the end, I guess I got what I expected. It is what it is. My kids aren't numbers, anyways. They're people--with personalities, senses of humor, attitudes, and complicated lives. I came to love them, and hopefully I've done a little of that. Hopefully I can still do that in the remaining days I have them.

16. The amount of classes I have left with these boys.
11. The date in June after class ends, and also the day I realize that I'll miss some of these boys more than I can imagine now. SOME of them.
180. The degrees my life has turned since taking this job.
∞. The amount of time that's seemed to elapse since August 25, 2009.
And the amount of grace I've been shown through my journey this year.