Lament of a Teacher

I didn’t sign up to be a saint.

I signed up to teach.

To crack open books and brains,

to hand young minds the keys to doors

that I had to find on my own—

buried deep and far from

any rundown trailer park.

But now I’m not just teaching.

I’m parenting without permission.

I’m counseling without credentials.

I’m refereeing fights in hallways

and writing lesson plans at midnight

because this week I had

a staff meeting, a department meeting, 3 PLC’s, 2 IEP’s, 1 AIG, 2 new 504 plans, and a required Professional Development course to make sure I’m still qualified to do what I already do.

And it’s no wonder I haven’t the time to.

And I can’t say that I, or anyone, would

do this for the pay.

I’m buying notebooks and pencils with money I don’t have.

I’m keeping Ramen cups at my desk for

whoever needs them.

I’m typing grades with eyes that won’t stay open.

And all the while I’m praying that the broken system won’t break me

before I break through to them.

✧✧✧

And let me tell you—

there is weight in every lesson.

Not just the weight of themes, rhetoric, or Shakespeare.

But the weight of kids carrying hunger in their stomachs,

anger in their fists,

grief in their tight lips.

The weight of poverty that follows them to class.

The weight of trauma I can’t erase with my morning fun facts.

The weight of knowing I’m expected to fix

what the world has already failed.

Like the student they label a “behavior problem”

when really he’s the child of the system,

punished for wounds he never chose,

suspended for surviving.

Like the immigrant scholar—fluent in grit,

familiar with fear—

who shows up every day,

of every year,

terrified of being deported

before his diploma can ever be awarded.

Or before he can afford to

look the part.

He works hard in the field after school

but it’s still hard.

Then there’s the thirty-five kids in my room—all crammed in—

because more positions were cut,

again,

I guess the exodus every June

is never too late or too soon,

It just….is.

because budgets matter more than breathing space,

because the future is somehow worth less than the funding.

✧✧✧

But still—

I show up.

I show up because when a student finally writes a good paper,

learns to understand metaphors,

opens up because my classroom feels “safer,”

or whispers “thank you” like it costs them everything—

that’s holy ground.

That’s why I stay.

✧✧✧

But don’t get it twisted.

I’m tired.

I’m tired of test scores being treated like sacred scripture.

I’m tired of being told to “do more with less.”

I’m tired of hearing the word “accountability”

when the people using it wouldn’t last one week in my classroom.

✧✧✧

And I’m angry.

I’m angry that my worth is measured in data points,

that my students are reduced to percentages,

that the system wants robots but I’m still raising humans.

I’m angry that I’m asked to carry

what entire communities refuse to confront.

And I grieve.

I grieve for the student who disappeared midyear.

For the kid who sits quiet because he hasn’t eaten since yesterday.

For the girl who thinks her worth is displayed

by the red marks on her essay.

✧✧✧

And I grieve for my own children—

for the nights I gave your kids my energy,

my patience,

my time,

and came home with nothing left for mine.

✧✧✧

This isn’t just a job.

This is a calling—a ministry of love, respect, and decency—

a mission field without missionaries,

a battlefield where the soldiers are children

and I’m armed with nothing but a whiteboard marker.

✧✧✧

So if you want to know what it’s like—

it’s loving kids so hard it hurts when you can’t save them,

it’s standing between them and the storm,

it’s drowning while still teaching them how to swim.

✧✧✧

And if I ever walk away,

it won’t be because I stopped caring.

It will be because I stopped being able to carry on,

because I could no longer survive this system.

✧✧✧

But until then,

I will fight with every breath.

I will risk the dive to whatever depth.

Because teaching isn’t just what I do.

It’s life or death.