A teacher reflects on important happenings

I used to go through a box of chalk every week. I needed a chalkboard and a library, not a $60 textbook.
I bought 200 cheap pens and three boxes of college-ruled paper. All I wanted the kids to do was show up.
I wish they wouldn’t eat the pens, but they do. I wish they all took vitamins, but they don’t. I wish they all came from loving homes, got enough rest, were well-fed, wore clean clothes to school everyday, and had shoes that were functional and fit well, but they don’t. I wish they weren’t neglected, exploited or abused.
I wish this week’s new boyfriend wouldn’t hit momma and lay around drunk. I wish last month’s would leave her alone. I wish new stepfathers wouldn’t bother the little girls at night or beat on the little brothers for not being their own. I wish daddy’s new wife didn’t hate the sight of them or view them as the interlopers.
That wish list is a constant because those conditions are part of the interior life of some of those kids in front of me every year. Everything else has changed. Every Thing. Dry erase. Smart rooms. Instructional coaches. SCOS. IEP. EOG. EOC. SIOP. NCLB. AYP. NCWISE. Ghaaaaa!
My kids don’t even have a library. They have a media center. Their textbooks weigh 800 pounds and some have to haul them everywhere, every day. They changed the name of my class to Language Arts, and my own kids don’t even have teachers anymore. But I don’t tell them to say “Yes, ma’am, no ma’am, no excuses, ma’am,” to their educators. I ask them to say it to their teachers.
I never give homework. I hope they will read, but when you leave school, go be a little kid.
I don’t ever call Momma over misbehavior. I save phone calls for things I’m proud of. I don’t expect Momma to help me do what I am being well paid to do. I definitely make too much to expect her to help me manage my classroom.
All I want from Momma is for her to at least not hurt ‘em. I wish for a lot of things for my kids. That is at the top. Please just don’t hurt them.
I give every kid a new day every day. I don’t care what they did yesterday or last week. We are going to enjoy the possibilities instead of dragging around in the ashes of the past.
Every single Friday, I make every single kid say the same thing. They have to read it at first, but it gets stored quickly. They have to say this out loud together and put their name in the space. They have to stand up too. “I am the only_____we have. I am valuable and precious, so I will not take foolish risks.” Then they have to sit down. I don’t care if the bell did ring. They don’t get to move until the R sound rolls off of “another.” I always say, “Bye. I love you. Be kind to one another.”
I don’t want to lose them. I don’t want them hurt. I don’t want to wish that I told them I love them. They are valuable. They are precious. I do love them. That is the stuff that matters. The board up there on that wall and those young ’uns we have for such a short time, not one minute of it promised tomorrow. Nothing else matters. Nothing. I wish we could get back to some of that, the important stuff.

Bob Harrison is a 1974 graduate of Tennessee High School who now lives in Connelly Springs, N.C. He is an English teacher, an essayist and is proud to have been a student of Coach John Manney, Ms. Maxie Miller and Dr. Allen Pridgen.