Reason No. 27635 I Love My Job

by beccaborrelli


The Lesson. Pablo Picasso

The Lesson. Pablo Picasso

When the new Third Grader from an inner city school falls onto industrial carpet in her new suburban classroom… screaming expletives starting with “F” and tearing at white blond locks of hair… she is calmly escorted to the Boss Lady’s door… allowed to continue fits in a leather chair while adults pretend to do paperwork.

She rubs red eyes and gulps big gasps of air. When she is done her teacher hugs her. She hugs back… burying teary cheeks into shoulders. The possessed 8 year old seems to leave. She spends the rest of the day less like the Exorcist… more like an apprehensive Hannah Montana… minus designer leggings and hair extensions. Although mediocre pop star analogies are only ideal relative to a spinning, cursing head.

Somehow this slice of school day reflects precisely what my perfect world would look like. Not a world of pleases, thank yous and folded hands in laps. A sloppy world where unassuming teachers wear out-of-date cardigans and carry tote bags with red apples stitched to the side. Who sell Longaberger Baskets, paint their nails taupe, and hug little girls who call them “f-ing assholes.” There are no press releases. No banners. No bragging rights on State Report Cards. Only a principal, teacher, and an 8 year old new kid who know secret miracles that happen this day. Well- and an impressionable Art Teacher with a blog.

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