[please try to contain your shock]

And so I had to circle around a Taco Bell [no, I didn't purchase anything though I would SWEAR I heard the cinnamon twists calling my name, but I can't be sure]. As I did, I saw an African American dude walk out of the restaurant. He looked dirty, he looked homeless, and he looked tired.

I watched as he crossed in front of me. He opened a plastic cup of sliced oranges and poured it into his mouth. Then as he walked by, he looked right at me. He stared at my eyes and I couldn’t help but begin to wonder about his life. How did he get here? Where was his mama? Where will he sleep? When will he eat again?

And who was his 3rd grade teacher?

A weird question, I know. But I looked at him and I saw his little self. I looked in his face and saw what he looked like when he sat in a desk, turned in his spelling test, and ran around on the playground.

It brought me to tears. Because I taught over 150 students in five years. And I remember all of their names [I'm kinda a freak like that]. And I bet they remember mine, cause kids always remember their teachers.

My 3rd grade teacher was Mrs. Albers. She knows how I turned out- I had lunch with her about 2 years ago. But I wonder if somewhere, that young man’s teacher sits at home tonight and is curious about him. I wonder if she pulls out that class picture and looks at each face, remembers handwritten notes and Christmas gifts, and daydreams about who her students became as adults.

Because kids don’t forget their teachers. And teachers don’t forget their kids.

I prayed for that guy there in the Taco Bell parking lot. I also prayed for my students. I prayed that they would use their minds [in which I poured knowledge, and a few jokes] to keep getting an education. That at every turn they would look to make the wise choice. That somehow they would remember my name and in some weird mindmap connection, that would remind them that they can be anything they want to be.

I hope my kids are okay. I wonder about them.

Your teachers probably wonder about you too, you know.

Who was your favorite teacher?

[And if you can, maybe now is a good time to contact that teacher and say thanks. Send a picture. Teachers love sentimental junk like that.]

Have a great weekend.

Good. Gravy.

Literally.

[I'm sorry. But that's funny.]

Nashville Thanksgiving 2009 was super wonderful. But more on that later this week.

As I stood in the kitchen and talked with a friend, he asked a question, and within my answer I said, “did you know I used to teach school?” Then I moved on with the conversation, using the teaching thing as just a point on the map to better locate another place.

Teacher Art Show piece. 2007.

Like “I used to teach school” isn’t a big deal. Like it was just a job, just a season of life that used to be.

It was NEVER just a job.

Teaching elementary school was all I ever wanted to do. The first day in my first classroom, I cried. Because my childhood dream was reality. I cried a lot of days after that [insert shock here]- 3/4 of the crying days were out of pure exhaustion or frustration, but 1/4 was joy, happiness, and just what love from kids does to me.

Here’s what I wish I would have said:

“I used to teach school. I taught 5th grade for 2 years and 4th grade for 3 years. I loved 180+ kids over a five year span and I can tell you every one of their names. I still pray for those jokers, and I plan to love them forever. Crafts were my joy and I sang stupid made-up songs every day. My favorite subject was Social Studies and I actually liked grading papers. I wrote a joke on the board every Friday and speaking of boards, I can write in a perfectly straight line on a white board. We laughed everyday. A lot. And I read out loud every afternoon. My classroom was an extension of my home (and me) – messy, but pretty sweet. I used to teach school. And there are days, like today, when I totally miss it.”

That should have been my answer.

I am thankful [Thanksgiving tie-in? You betcha.] that God took my career dreams, birthed when I was in Mrs. Albers’ 3rd grade class in 1989, and gave them to me. And someday, when I get tired of being a starving artist with a zillion part time jobs, maybe I’ll go back.

Cause a spiritual gift like my white board skillz is a terrible thing to waste.

I HATE burping. I think it ranks as one of the top rudest things a person can do, in public or in private. I don’t like it. Those people who can burp the alphabet are not talented- they are sick individuals. There is no pride in that. To call it a skill is giving it too much credit. It’s gross.

Let the one who has not burped cast the first stone. Alas, for all my judging and inner-ridiculization (is that a word?) of burpers, I now have become one.

I’m ashamed of myself.

On another note, I got a new student today (remember I teach 4th grade) who is at least 2 inches taller than me, has a full blown mustache, and has a deep man voice. To say I was shocked when he walked in is an understatement- more like terrified. I think he has his own parking space, I’m not sure. But he looks old. We may have been in preschool together, who knows.

And I got real excited today when I thought the blocker on the school internet had been taken off my computer. But unfortunately not. Probably better- can you imagine what life would be like if I had access to this blog all day? Not good, my friends, not good.

So those are the highlights of a day in my teaching life. Probably a bit disappointing. I’m sorry.