Today, my boyfriend and I got to talking about what we wanted to do when we were little. He has this terrible and sweet need to take care of everyone (that drives me crazy!). And as it turns out, this has been the case since Day 1. And then he asked me what I wanted to do when I was little. My story isn't exactly exciting. Truth be told, I wanted to do exactly what I am doing now, exactly what I still want to do "when I grow up." And it all goes back to one day in the first grade. But let me start here.

When I was in kindergarten, I couldn't read. I was that 5-year-old who still hadn't gotten it and it drove me crazy, because books were my favorite thing. I tried to pretend I could, and even had my teachers fooled (which I now know, speaks loads about them). Because I figured out the scissor picture meant cut, the pencil meant write, etc. And yet, when I was 5 years old, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up, and it had everything to do with the things I couldn't yet do. So I wanted to learn.

The next year, I did all those things. I learned to read and write fluently, and I took on the reading world by storm. First grade. The year I learned to read, the year my reading went from nonreader to 6th-grade fluency (according to silly San Diego Quick, I must admit). And then it was settled what I would be when I grew up, now that I knew how to do it. I wanted to be a teacher, and of course, a writer.

That year, we had one small assignment one day. It wasn't a big project, it wasn't something we spent more than one "I didn't plan a lesson" class period on from my teacher, but it stuck with me. She asked us to write a "letter" to ourselves on one of those very wide sheets of newsprint in which the top half in blank for drawing and the bottom half is about 5 manuscript lines. On this paper we were to write a letter to 25-year-old selves. So, in about 20 years, where did we want to be and what did we want to be doing?

To this day, when I judge myself on a "5-, 10-, 20-year plan ... I think about that day sitting in my seat at my desk pondering what I would be when I "grew up" and was 20 years old. I wanted to make sure that it was something good and that I never forgot what I wanted when I began. It's funny, what sticks. The little things.

And what did I say? I don't have the paper, but I remember exactly the things I said I'd be doing: I'd be married and a mother to 2 kids, a boy and a girl. I would be an elementary school teacher. We would have a pet dog. I would live in North Carolina. I would also be a writer so I could tell good stories. We would be happy, just like my family.

Well, I'm getting a little closer to 25 than I'd like, but I've always kind of kept those standards for myself. I knew what I was talking about! Now, I don't think I'll have two kids and a picket fence in 3 years, but I like that I remembered my childhood dreams. And I think it's important, sometimes, that we look back on those dreams that are unadulterated by the realities we've confronted along the way. Before money, and skepticism, and schooling, and peer pressure, and other pressures came into play ... when you were at your most genuine, bright-eyed and optimistic, what did you want to do? Who did you want to be?

So thanks to my boyfriend and my letter from the past popping up in my memories, I had a small little moment of victory today in knowing that I became, in part (or am becoming) what I always wanted to be. I was a writer (and I still hope to be) and I am a teacher. I am trying to reach my dreams.

And now that I'm getting there, I'm ready to be that bright-eyed girl again now and write a letter to my 30-year-old self. I hope she

My colleagues at Walbridge laugh to hear that I'm not only a new teacher, but that less than a year ago I was still an undergraduate student. I spent my days working three jobs (well, law office runner, Daily Gamecock editor, full-time student), and my nights with my soon-to-be boyfriend and motley crue of best friends. My life was completely immersed in the adult crowd, especially the early 20-somethings.

But let me tell you. When the people closest to you, the ones you spend the most time with, goes from about 7-8 20-somethings to 20-or-so 7-8-year-olds ... everything about you changes. You are "broken in," touched daily by things you didn't used to have an eye for, and unphased by things that used to make you squirm in your seat.

A few examples?

Bodily fluids - Tissues were made for allergy and flu season. There was no such thing as a runny nose (at least not one seen), and the most I ever had to respond to a sneeze was, "Bless you." Now? Snot running down children's noses, productive sneezes into thin air and hands (not always those of the sneezer), and constant sniffles. Unphased. Urine? Ha. Before, I maybe cleaned up after my mom's dog had an accident with about 10 paper towels folded and re-folded. Now? I'm cleaning up pee from young children, changing clothes, and keeping a stone face so the other kids don't notice the accident.

Hugs - Hugs used to be a southern greeting to best friends or acquaintances, I gave hugs to family and boyfriends, and for sappy goodbyes that came with leaving college. Now I know better. If a child hugs you (which may be a leg hold or a tackle) at any time (saying hello, goodbye, passing in homework, walking by the hall) whether he/she knows you or not ... you never deny, and you never end it first. Let them hug you whenever they want for as long as they want. There is a reason they need to share their love.

Tattling and Fights - Tattling drives me crazy and fights fire me up. He hates her and she hates him and they talked about my momma and he called me a fat head so I hit him. I want to yell and punish and remind them how we keep our friends and lecture, lecture, lecture ... But I know better. It's not really the end of the world. Should I talk to them? Yes. Punish? Consequences. BUT THEY WILL FORGET ABOUT IT AND BE BEST FRIENDS AGAIN IN LESS TIME THAN IT TAKES YOU TO SEND THEM BACK TO THEIR SEAT. Children are resilient, case closed.

Tears - I am unphased by tears. Eyes swelled up, tears streaming down sour faces, sobbing, screaming crying ... nothing. Children cry the way lawyers argue .. they know what they are doing, and they are not getting it from me. Unless I see blood and tears, or a crying child who is trying to hide that he/she is crying ... tears have no effect on me.

Sugar - I love sugar, I'm addicted to sugar. I used to hate when my teachers wouldn't let me have my cookie before I ate the disgusting cafeteria meal. Now? I know what that one sugar cookie will do to a kid without any other food to soften the sugar rush blow. Lunch rule: real food before you touch anything with artificial color.

Other things that now unphase me: stomping, huffing, sticky fingers, ketchup packets, gum (spit into my hand), and scraped up knees.

But then the things that touch me now that I didn't really see before. Spending all your time with college adults meant fun talks and judging others (be honest) and going back over our funny stories. Kids are different - they are a special breed.

Maybe this is a "Mommy Crash Course" of sorts being a teacher, but I finally understand the idea of "They drive me absolutely crazy and take me to wit's end on a daily basis but I love them and couldn't imagine life without them."

On Friday, I was sick. I didn't want to take a Sick Day because, well, I didn't want to leave my babies at school without me (for my sanity as much as their's). But they were worried about me all day, it was precious. And when I put on a movie for them, they cuddled together and zoned out on "Peter Pan" uttering phrases like, "Oooh that mean Captain Hook!" and "Tink, you deserve it. Be nice!" and "No, don't open it!".

They may have a horrifying adult gleam in their eyes brought on by their environment, but they are equally blessed with that childhood innocence bequeathed to them by nature. Every child I see now makes me smile, makes me wonder what they are thinking, makes me want to say "Hi" because I know that when they respond, they will be genuine and curious and sweet.

There is something in children that makes you stronger than you ever thought, weak in the knees by the simplest of acts, and always wanting more.

These kids are breaking me in

It's not enough to believe you can do it,
To believe they can do it,
But still you have to believe.

You have to believe that the terror outside
Doesn't have to spoil the beauty within.
That only the expectations for greatness
Will overcome the pretenses of failure.

It will not be enough that they survive,
And it will not be enough that they endure
Everything their neighborhood shows them
To be the reality before them.

Giving up is to look at the death,
The abuse, the addictions, the evictions.
To look at the loss and the sorrow,
The burdens they carry and the scars they wear,
To think that pushing them on is enough.
To think that them keeping them in school,
Off the streets, off the drugs, out of the gangs
Could make me a success in their eyes.

Because it's not enough
And those aren't expectations
That will inspire them to change
The reality from which I strive to protect them.

Because if my biggest hope is for them to live,
For their nightmares not to be their reality,
Then how will they ever be lifted
To really design, want, and work for their dreams?


Today was an emotional day (quite a cliche, I'm realizing, for a teacher to describe his or her day). Today was our ceremony for my deceased student (how come trying to sound proper really only ever sounds cold?) - today was our school's ceremony for my little girl who died. We had a tree planted in our butterfly garden for her, held a little ceremony, and released hundreds of purple and pink balloons. In my class we had yet another talk about Mia, death, and being watched over the ones we love (the students never really hold back from talking about God and their guardian angels). I cut up light pink pastel paper and punched a hole in the corner of each and we wrote notes to Mia to tie onto our batch of balloons. It was beautiful, and terribly emotional.

Then I look around the neighborhood, and I have the strangest feeling. It's a mixture of disappointment, sadness, anger, and hope. Yes, hope. But I'm not about to sound inspirational I'm sure, because it was more of a "we need hope for this place to make it" than "I've got it!". And then a few hours later and I found out about a student shot afterschool in that very neighborhood, two blocks away in a parking lot.

So now I'm left, like I think I portrayed earlier, distraught. What do I do when this seems to be where my kids are going? I'd give my life to keep them from going there - from being the bad guy or the victim. But how do I do that? What do I really teach? And how do I do this? When they're years behind where they should be in school, when they are years ahead of where they should be in innocence, and yet they are still babies as to how to deal with their feelings? What do you do? And how do you really teach love, respect, kindness? Because I'm trying, and I don't see it.

I see them love me and hug me and be children with me, but then I see them make pretend gangs and start groupfights and curse at one another and threaten one another and talk about hurtful things to one another. And when I say hurtful, I mean truly truly hurtful. What am I not doing to make them the kind of people they are, can, and should be? My heart is breaking into a million pieces every second I watch them slip away from me.

We can talk about it until I'm blue in the face, but how do we make it real?

PS: This is a real question. Help??!