All right! The first week of semester 2 is over. I gotta say, it's definitely an interesting experience to have entirely new classes after only a few months. I'm working with sophomores and freshmen, and thank goodness that the sophomore classes are smaller.
So after all that unnecessary drama last week, here's some positive stuff I got to hear from people!
- I had more than one student tell me they really enjoy my English classes so far.
- I was actually called intimidating by a freshman! It was kind of adorable, because I feel like I look like a cinnamon roll and am actually a cinnamon roll.
- One of my seniors came in because he had been sick for a while just to thank me for a great class. I practically melted.
- One of my coworkers called me cute and their "fave." Aaaaaahhhh! I love being loved!
- That same coworker also told me they thought I had a good balance when it came to being a teacher and handling both the needs of peers and students at the same time…
I should have known that it was you, Hannah -
your words seared into my brain more than once,
but if only said words were true, Hannah.
Your anger is like beauty when it blunts
your excellent performance. Dear Hannah,
do you speak for cultures that aren't your own
and shun a simple fellow queer, Hannah?
You seem to condemn authority's throne,
yet wear a crown of fake diamonds, Hannah.
I see the glare of hard and pure disdain
encapsulated in silence, Hannah.
I will not pretend that I know your pain,
nor hold against you your ire or drama.
I wish only the best for you, Hannah.
Her grandmother had a glass eye -
spiderwebbed blue, arching light
across the diameter of the living room.
I was reminded of The Tell-Tale Heart;
suddenly, with a murderer, I empathized.
That eye lingered like a broken sapphire
lost in an aging, gray ring of a face.
All fragmented. All battered by time.
Cracks disturbed from slumber across
her lips and brow. Lopsided nose and chin
to finish the cubist portrait. Perhaps
I was being far too cruel.
For she was not made of glass, yet how fragile
she appeared. For she had lost her real eye
in a basement long ago, after her angry father
had lost his mind over a dry bottle. The neck
of that, too, had been shattered. Screams
palpitating. Heartbeat screeching fire. Half
her vision lost, but memory seared like
an engraving on soft gold fingers.
I suppose that's why the glass eye looked
as if it had fallen, ground into the floor
by a boot, and beaten with a hammer.
After all, not even a precious substitute