Yesterday I found out that I am teaching a higher level course for 8th grade students who have tested out of Reading classes. Co-ed class. Pretty much whatever I want to teacher. Initially I was stunned. Crap what could I teach? I ended up settling on some piece of student apathy. Figured that after defining Apathy, Empathy, and Sympathy we could figure out where to go.

I had students write what they are looking forward to and decided, fuck this what they really need is me. Haha!

I found an awesome Malcolm X Martin Luther King Jr. Liberation Curriculum. Going to look at that even though I think that it is biased to MLKJr.
Audre Lorde -- Uses of Anger.
Assata Shakur -- Message from the Cuba.
Ifeni Menkiti -- Individualism vs. Communitarianism.

And so on. They want to be challenged? I challenged them to challenge the world. They want to practice writing so they can do well on the CRCT? Bring it.

I'm actually totally excited for this class! Whee.

Today is the first day that I saw a parent cry in front of me. I had called the parent because her child would just put her head down or lash out in class. In all honesty, it wasn't really a problem. That, I blame myself. But soon, I felt worried. Who was this child would I knew was carrying a burden? Why did it take me so long to reach out. For the meeting, the Vice Principal showed me. She sat in the clump of five desks with us. I remember thinking how ashamed I felt that the desks were not even. I started by explaining how I've been concerned about this student, but it was not until this past weekend when I graded her Memoir project that I realize how severe this could be. This student turned nothing it, other than a messily few inches of text as her final draft. In pencil, damn it. But those few words were written with almost no grammatical error. Those few sentences were composed of compound sentences. Those few sentences painted a more descriptive picture using vivid imagery than most other papers combined. I failed this student along the way. If not me-- many different things. We found out that she is verbally abused at home. That its a big of mess of custody and life in the struggle. She ended up being referred to the counselors and the social workers and Community in Schools.

But all I can remember is the mother, with her large eyes and even larger fake eyelashes. How she looked so. So sad. I could only think "Oh God. Please don't tell me. I can't handle this. This is so fucking unfair." She kept saying that she was trying and we all knew she was. But a victim of the system-- of every system, can't thrive. I kept thinking about how Ms. Skipper always reminds me the way her teachers reminded her. There is nothing worse than an uneducated black female. To me: There is nothing more tragic that an uneducated and disempowered woman of color. When she sees it. When she feels it. When she tastes it. When she can picture that as the future of her child. The child sat silent. Tears running down her face when she saw her Ma.

I felt like the day went by in a blur. At the end of the night, I was sitting in Brandon's room. I guess I was silent. He pulled me in for a hug and I started to sob. Its so fucking unfair. This system that makes children so afraid. I can't stop. I can't. I am here for a fucking reason. That reason is that by some grace of God I've made it through. I've negotiated a way through education and that is something to be shared. Be compassionate. Be real. I've decided that I will let my guard down. Shave the armor that makes me "grown" and the students adversaries. That is not a way to teach. That is not a way to love.