From Eastway Drive to West Boulevard

Well, it has been two months since I moved from teaching in the East side of Charlotte to the West. And it has been rough. Between breaking up fist fights in my classroom, ignoring creative racial slurs (I got called a cracker star in one of my classes), finding new hiding places for all of my supplies which keep disappearing (seriously, all of my pens are gone. I had like 10), and keeping an eye out for who threw what at who, I don’t have a lot of time left to teach a solid lesson.

I have to keep reminding myself that these kids have earned their black belt in driving off teachers. They successfully got two to quite last year and have the reputation of being the worst class in the school–leading the school with suspensions. The teachers that stuck it out through the last year and came back this year are called survivors.

I want to be a survivor. I want to be more than a survivor. I want to be a thriver.  Every day I wake up begging God for the fearless strength of Giddeon. The mature Giddeon. Not the one that was hiding away when God called him, but the one that was ready to run into battle with nothing but God. That’s who I want to be.

In it all, there’s those pieces of light. Like my one student who thanks me every day for the lesson I tried to teach saying, “I really liked what you said about thinking of others.”
Or my student who’s mouth runs on a mysterious type of energy that scientist would surely benefit from studying:
Hey Ms. Cristobal! Ms. Cristobal!
What is my grade in your class?
ImeanIknowIgotanFbutwhydoIgotanFIdoyourworkImeanmostofyourwork. ImaynotturnitinallthetimeandIdon’tdothehomeworkbutIdogoodworkinclassandI’mgettingbetter, right?
AndyousayItalktoomuchbutyouknowitsTierrathat’stalkingwhydoIgottasitwithheryouknowwetalkshekeepsmakingmelaughandIcan’thelpit.
Ms.CristobalifIcometotutoringwouldthathelppullupmygrades? BecauseIdon’twannagetanFyouknowI’mtryingtodobetterIdomostoftheworkinyourclassandIdon’ttalkallthetimeImeanthere’stimeswhenIamquiet. Sometimes. Whendoyoudotutoring?Tuesdays?CanIcomeTuesdaysfortutoringandpullmygradesup? Yougonnacallmymomma,Ms.Cristobal? Pleasedon’tcallmymommashegonna whoop me.

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