I have this theory about mirrors, about communities and mirrors.

I have this theory that the mirrors to our hearts, our souls, our real true selves, are morphed like fun-house mirrors. I have this theory that this has something to do with the fall. That one day, on the other side, when all is restored,  it will be easy to see ourselves as God designed us, as we really truly are. It will be just as easy as looking at the things right in front of our face.

But right now, our mirrors are warped.

We hold them up to ourselves and the image we see looks enough like us to fool us into believing that this is the truth. This pulled or shrunken, this distorted face is really our true self. And we look and we see the faces of those around us, we believe that everyone else’s inside thoughts and feelings are perfectly normal and interesting and proportional (though trust THEY don’t see themselves like that) and we are ashamed. We just wished we were like HER, whoever that is, but we know that we aren’t because of what this warped fun house mirror shows us about ourselves.

I have this theory that this warped perception of ourselves has the potential to do some serious damage. Either we walk around believing that we are the only ones with the weird bodies and the misshapen faces, with past hurts and loud voices reminding us what we are not.  We have deep shame about who we think we are, and we begin to choose to see everyone else warped as well, sometimes we even begin to point out other’s features as messed up and un-human. We decide the world will be safer for us, if we can see everyone as jacked up as we see ourselves. So we look for it. Seek and you will find.

I have this theory about warped mirrors, about the solution to warped mirrors, this side of heaven. I believe the solution to our warped mirrors is to find the perfect angle. But the secret is this, your own arms aren’t long enough. Your elbow doesn’t bend that way. You’ll never be able to get the angle right yourself. You need a community, you need someone else, to hold up the mirror and show you what they see. I think we can see our true selves, on this side of earth. I think it just takes someone else to hold up the mirrors for us, to tell us what they see. I think that is what the church is for, what community is for, if we’re doing it right.

People who have been in communities of mirror holders go on to change the world, to adjust the angle of the world’s mirrors. You can recognize a person who has really seen herself by the way she holds up the mirrors to the world. It is a gift, to be a mirror adjuster. We get to show people who they really are, turn the mirror just so, speak the truth.

Look! Don’t you see what I see? You are beautiful, you just can’t see it from your angle. Give me your mirror. Let me help.

I have this theory about mirrors, about communities that hold each other’s up and adjust the angles. I have this idea that if we just work together, we could see what things were like before our mirrors got warped.

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I have a lot of great mirror holders in my life, my real life community and also my online community. This was linked with She Loves Magazine a community full of mirror holders. Go and see for yourself.

It’s that time of year again, the time of year when the summer reading list comes out. You, are a responsible parent so you look at the list. You realize you recognize none of the titles. In an effort to be relevant, your school’s English department has elected to read something that has been published in the last five years, you have been raising children in those last five years and thus have never heard of the title(s) your child is being asked to read. Being a responsible parent, you Google it. You have some concerns. The book has material that you think you may object to, teen sex/drug use/masturbation/violence. You are not sure you want your child reading this book.

What should you do?

Well, as a teacher, let me give some examples of what you should NOT do. (Yes, all of these things have happened to me, or someone I know.)

You should NOT email the teacher explaining to the teacher that you are sure s/he had no idea, but there is questionable material in this book and you are happy to help do the teachers job by rejecting this book. Look, the person who shows up in the classroom day after day to talk to your kid about reading and writing, This person, your child’s teacher, knows about books. I promise. They picked this book for a reason, and they probably picked it from a list of The National Council of Teacher’s of English: best choices for summer reading, or The  American Library Association’s favorite books for teens.

You should NOT email the teacher and tell her that she is a terrible human being who hates children and is sick, sick sick. So you disagree on a number of things. Fine. But this teacher did not go into the teaching profession to corrupt your child. There are far easier things that make a lot more money if the end goal is corrupting children.

You should NOT email the teacher and insinuate that s/he must have picked the book on accident, and that surely the principal/superintendent/board of education would be horrified at this book choice so you are just trying to help the teacher keep her job by pointing out just how terrible it is. The teacher has read the book, and before it made it to your child’s hands it was vetted by the department head, the principal, and perhaps the district wide Language Arts coordinator. If your child was given that book by the school to borrow, the school board bought at least 200 copies of it. They know. You may disagree with the book, and that is your right as a parent. But let’s not insult everyone over said disagreement.

So, what should you do?

You SHOULD make an appointment with the teacher and hear them out. Give them a list of the concerns that you have and ask them how they plan on handling those things. That teacher might have some really good things to say that you want your child to hear.

You SHOULD read enough of the book that you know what is up. The conversation can be better had if everyone knows what they are talking about. If the teacher has assigned it, they have read it.

You SHOULD consider reading the book with your child and having the conversations with your kid as you read the book together. Chances are your kid is already having these conversations with friends. Here is an awesome opportunity to have your say. You can talk about how the author represented the material you object to and why you object to it and how you would like to have it represented. Because this is summer reading, you get first dibs at shaping your kid’s thinking about whatever it is you object to. This may be your perfect opportunity.

If you absolutely cannot allow your child to read this book, you should offer an alternative. Make it as even as possible, a novel for a novel, a memoir for a memoir. As a parent, it is your right to make decisions about your kid reads. I want you to continue to make that decision. I just want you to do it in a way that is kind, and thoughtful.

I don’t know how to tell my story without yelling. Without my hands raised in the air, using a calm and measured tone. I don’t feel calm and measured about the state of education in this country. I don’t feel half way about anything, but especially about injustice. Ask my mom, I’ve been screaming IT’S NOT FAIR my whole life.

I walked into the copy room this morning to find a bookshelf, full of reams of copy paper. The only problem is that we didn’t have enough shelf space. Unopened boxes wait patiently on the floor for the end of year rush to copy study guides and final exams. My first year of teaching, I got an email in October that the paper had run out. I had to supply my own. I don’t ever want to be ungrateful for those things, for the paints my students are using as we alter books this spring, for the endless supply of pencils and pens that I do not have to buy with my own money.

I don’t understand why there are schools that don’t have basic supplies. This isn’t in some far away place. I am talking about school in the same zip code as your house.

I try to talk to my colleagues about it, and they just look confused. Many of them have only ever taught here, they didn’t know that schools still existed that have such a lack of supplies.

Maybe this is why I yell. I am trying to make sure that everyone will hear me this time.

I went to a writing conference. I had meetings and met people and talked to anyone who would listen about how I wrote a book about injustice in the inner-city school. And you know what? People listened. People wanted to know about my crazy story and the ways that it can get better. I tried to be professional, not wave my hands excessively or talk for more than my elevator pitch. I tried, I did, but the tears sometimes leak out. The urgency is real.

Right now, in a school in the same city as you, there is a crop of eighth graders who are excited about the possibility of finally being high-schoolers next year. Many of these students are headed to schools with graduation rates as low as 40%. Forty percent. Congratulations, you are in high school, and you are going to have to fight like hell just to make it through your senior year. Your entire future depends on your ability, at fourteen, to consistently make good choices. The stakes are that high. 

It is dire, and urgent,and if we could just change the disparity in education, we could probably stop building new prisons. We would no longer need them. I can’t tell this story without yelling, because I am sure this is a problem that is solvable. The situation is desperate, but not without hope. For every desperate school, I believe that there is a solution. I think we could give every kid a real honest to God chance at graduating High school, if we just invested in the school closest to us that needs it.

I think systemic change could happen tomorrow, or at the very latest in August. Right now, your local school is planning for next year. Right now is when they are being told how many teachers they will have and how much of their budget will be cut for next year. Right now is when the principals are trying to figure out how to make ends meet. Call them. Google “worst school in (insert your city name) and CALL THEM. Tell them you want to help and then LISTEN. The schools already know what they need, they just don’t always have the means to get it.

So that is why I yell. Why I talk so fast at parties people can’t get a word in edge wise, why I smack the person behind me on accident because I am gesticulating wildly. It is because I want to make sure I am heard. I am trying to make you care. We could change the trajectory of an entire school. If we just decided we wanted to. I’m yelling so you will hear me.

I have a friend who has whole Faerie Tales inside of her. She dreamt a whole book the other day, and still was not sure it was a sign from God. She longs to be taken seriously, and isn’t sure that magic and dragons are going to give her the voice to call out truth. I love her non-fiction, but I can tell through the posts she leaves on the screen that her eyes light up and her heart thumps faster every time the story comes to her. I want to take her face in my hands and remind her that  of all the non-fiction essays C.S. Lewis wrote about God, it is Aslan and Narnia that is most often refered to. Our souls are attracted to the truth, even if it is told through wizards and other worlds.

And I have a friend who made the craziest dishes for the ladies brunch. The vast majority of the ladies at the brunch were Daniel fasting. She whipped up an apple berry crumble and a sweet potatoe hash that was so good I thought there was going to be a Baptist lady fist fight over who got to lick the pan. When asked for the recipe she shrugged it off like it wasn’t a big deal. It was just something she threw together. She wanted to tell us how she could make it better, how she would substitute this or puree that. We couldn’t hear her over the this is sooooo goood groaning that was going on. She doesn’t always see it, but this lady has a gift.

I had the incredible experience of being photographed by a woman who has the gift of seeing. She really sees me. She really sees the beauty of all women. She believes in the beauty of a woman’s body and she can’t stop see it. In a rose waiting to open her face to her maker, she sees in the curves of an ancient tree, the curves of the bodies of the baristas she loves. She keeps thanking me for trusting her, I keep looking at the photos, knowing that this is what my soul looks like. What do you mean thank me? She has a gift, and she gave it to me.

I’m surrounded by people who have gifts, and they keep telling me they are no big deal. If you can take fruits, vegetables, and ground nuts and turn them into a delicious meal, that is a big deal. If you can craft stories from dust without ever living them that is a big deal. If you can take 20 small children to a museum or a zoo and you remember to take them to the bathroom often enough so that no one had an accident, that isn’t just a Thursday. That is such a big deal I want to drop the f bomb on my Jesus blog. If you can apply make up to faces in a way that makes a tired mom feel beautiful, if you drive a bus without running anyone over (a feat I am sure I am not capable of), what you do is a really big deal!

My friend Marvia tweets in a way that makes the internet better, and my friend Leanne makes beautiful things out of sheets people discard. My friend Jamie can find poetry in any book you hand her. My mom can make a birthday cake that will make you feel infinitely loved, and my mother-in-law can make anyone on earth feel welcome in her home. My daughters can charm the pants off of anyone we have ever met on the train. My friend Megan got a kid who hasn’t passed a class in two years, earn a solid B. THESE ARE BIG DEALS! What the Lord has gifted you with is a big, big deal.

I don’t think God wants us to say that what He has gifted us is no big thing. I think He wants us to be proud of it, I think He wants us to share it as proudly as my lovely girls when they run to me with the picture they made while I was in big church. They tell me they made it for me. they demand I hang it on the fridge.

Today we will practice. What do you do that is a big deal? What are you so good at, God should hang it on His fridge?

We went to the first annual 1027 church easter egg hunt yesterday. It was a little wet and a little chilly, and practially perfect in every way.

The weather had been cold and rainy the night before and part of the field was filled with water . Part that constituted half of the field was covered in water. The light misting continued through the  hunt and as a result the turn out sufffered. Every kid there could have filled a trash bag, and there still would have been eggs left. There was no maximum number you were allowed to pick up, no time limit, no need for an early start for the little ones. There was no need. There was an abundance. Everyone have as many eggs as you want! Parents! Do not tell your kids to stop! Please! Take some more.

There were so many eggs left after all the kids got bored of it, I packed up a couple bags full to take to my sisters house. She does an egg hunt with her neighbors every year, but didn’t have time this year to stuff the eggs. Isn’t that what Easter is about? Look at the abundance of God’s love for you! Take as much as you want, and then pack it up and hand it to your friends and neighbors. Hallelujiah! God is good.

We didn’t make it to the Good Friday service, or the Easter eve service. We were spent after the sunrise service, and went home for naps instead of hitting the 10 o’clock. But we made the extravagant egg hunt. It was the nest reminder of just how much God loves us. Hallelujiah.

She walked into the room with her head shaved. She was breathtaking. Jane already stuck out in the high school she attended. Surrounded by middle-america farm land, Jewish was as exotic as it got. She was set apart in elementary school every year when her teacher asked her to explain to the class the menorah.

But now, now she was coming to school with her head shaved, and a horseshoe shaped scar across the back of her skull. Being a teenager is hard enough without the additional weight of brain surgery. Jane had been mousy and quiet before her two-week hiatus. Until it was her turn to go in my public speaking class, I didn’t always remember she was there.

There was no hiding now. She walked into the class with her shoulders back, no head scarves, no wigs. She was more radiant and powerful than Demi Moore in GI Jane. No veil of thick dark hair to hide behind.

Her classmates were complimenting her as only freshmen girls could. They were sighing and saying things like, “Oh my GOD Jane! I like, hate you so much. I could never be as pretty as you with my head shaved. You had brain surgery and you are STILL prettier than me.”

These ridiculous freshmen girl comments were also totally true. Jane had never looked more stunning.

The boys were trying to engage her in conversation about pain and guts. Mostly because they were fascinated by the scar, and totally in love with and intimidated by a girl who clearly had done something braver than they ever had.

I sat in the back of the room unable to take my eyes off this girl that I had barely noticed just two weeks before. I was trying to catalog all the differences.

Where she used to put her head down and stare at her hands, her long hair hiding her face, she now looked straight at her classmates nothing hiding her.
Where there was once a timid voice, a confident one now spoke out.
Where once there was a little girl, a confident and brignt young woman sat there articulating her thoughts.

I was twenty-one and a student teacher. I didn’t even have my own desk. And I remember staring at her, in complete awe. She had completely captured the room.

I still think of Jane when I am feeling insecure, when I lose the security blanket of blending in and realize that my scars are showing. I remember the lesson that 15 year old taught me when I was her teacher, and she was my student.

It is your scars that make you beautiful. It is the hair you think you need that is hiding you from the world.

I said it with a glass of wine in my hand, on a friend’s couch, surrounded by women who were being really honest about art and life and how everything is messier than we want it to be. Some of us were confessing, that once we got over the business of should, we secretly liked it this way. Other people honest makes me brave, and the gesticulating and yelling tends to get more intense. I drop more swears.

“I’m tired of building defenses to protect against her, I am going after that bitch with a stick.”

We were talking about scarcity. About the ways that we act when we are afraid there isn’t enough. Scarcity of love, of dreams, of time, of resources, of ways to mother, of potential spouses. I confessed that I burst into tears when I found out a friend just scored the thing I wanted. I am happy for her, and she deserves it and I want her to have that but…but I want it too. And scarcity rears her ugly head and says, there are only so many of those, this means your chances just got smaller. I guess you can celebrate with her, but really you should be mad that you didn’t get picked. Now maybe you won’t.

I’m so tired of scarcity getting a say in my life. She’s a liar who says mean things about me and I am not hanging out with her anymore.

I’ve been thinking about scarcity for awhile, and have even been re-structuring my thought patterns so that I can keep my space from scarcity. I thought we could have a nice clean break up, and then just leave each other alone. But scarcity is everywhere. How do you just build a defense around something that is so embedded in our culture?

I went to the Festival of Faith and Writing this past weekend. I’ve written a story that is true. One that is so important I get choked up and yell-y every time I try to give my two-minute pitch. There is just so much I want you to understand. I got really scared that no one would like me or my story, that everyone else would get all the things I want and I would be left in the dust, choking on my own jealousy. So, I emailed Esther to talk me down and she responded, as she always does, with the truth.

The only way to fight scarcity is with radical generosity.

In the blog world, sometimes it can feel like we trade social capital like baseball cards. I made it on this list, she retweeted me, he knows people I want to know. In real life too, she has more friends, he has cooler stuff, that person’s life is awesome so mine can’t be. It is exhausting and I don’t want to play that way anymore. It isn’t enough to build a wall and make sure the bad thoughts and feelings don’t get in. You can’t defensively fight scarcity. She is just too sneaky.

I saw Rachel Held Evans speak at the Plenary session at the end of the conference. She spoke about abundance and scarcity and I got mad. I had been thinking about doing something on scarcity but hadn’t had time. My friend texted me from the other side of the auditorium, “hey, that is your thing.” Now everyone is going to think I am a copier and a hack. She said it, so I can’t. I was believing in a scarcity of scarcity fighters. That doesn’t even make sense. I’ve got to get on the offensive.

I am declaring myself a scarcity hunter and want you to come join my pack! We can hunt scarcity down in our lives together. About twice a month,  you will get an email from me talking about how I have seen scarcity show up in my life lately and what truth I am replacing it with. There will probably be ALL CAPS and exclamation points. There will be conversations on Twitter (#scarcityhunter) and there will be radical generosity.

I hope to not just share the scarcity, but also our new projects and ideas, yours and mine. I want the scarcity hunters to use the giant stick of radical generosity to celebrate, encourage, cheer each other on. So, if you have an awesome lesson plan, or a new blog, or a book coming out, I want to celebrate you.  If you have a story about how you are a rock star, let us scream wildly for you. We fight scarcity with radical generosity.

So, let’s go after that bitch with a stick. I need my scarcity hunters. Whose with me?

Two Friday’s ago we won the lottery. The Pre-K lottery that is. We walked through the lines and filled out the paper work (twice actually because if you fill it out in purple pen and had to start over again, oops). Juliet will be attending our local elementary school for state funded four year old preschool five days a week next school year.

I’ve written a lot about the public school system and giving it a chance. I have had strangers email me and private message me and ask me to Skype about what to do for Kindergarten. Over and over again I start here, go see what is up at your local elementary school. Don’t depend on the test scores or the rumors you here at your local YMCA. (Hey ladies in the Tuesday Pilates class, kindly shut your mouth about a school you have never set your manicured feet into.) Show up, see what’s up. Make an educated decision about education.

So we did, we are. My small group has had a relationship with the head of the kindergarten team and I really like her. I like the vibe of the projects we have been given. Their library is beautiful, I like their courtyard, we are going to give it a go.

We didn’t move into our neighborhood because we were being purposefully “missional.” When we moved into our house, we didn’t even know that was a word, or a thing that churches did. We just moved into the nicest house we knew we could pay for. I never thought that choosing the free, local elementary school would be some sort of major statement, but it seems to have become that.

In the time between Juliet’s name going into the box, and her name being placed on the “made it” list on the front of the elementary school, I began to question everything. Is this the right school for us? Am I disadvantaging my kid? Will I regret what my daughter may be exposed to next year?

I am not going into this thing blind.

I know that the school we are zoned for has a really high poverty rate. I know that poverty rates mean more than money. I know that kids who live in poverty are exposed to higher rates of abuse and violence. I know that this can come out in the way that children interact with other children. I know I am going to need to be really careful about who Juliet goes home with, but I don’t think I would let my four-year-old go to a home I wasn’t familiar with regardless of the poverty rates at the school. Working at a upper-middle class suburban school has taught me that abuse crosses all boundaries. But statistically speaking, my daughters classmates are at a higher risk.

Then, (deep breath) there is the  issue of race. We live in a predominantly black neighborhood. We were welcomed so warmly I don’t even think about it anymore. But as we stood in line, I realized that we were the only white people in the entire building. All of the teachers, the librarian, the principal, the other parents, all of the kids. I think my sweet girl is likely to be the only white person in the whole place. Am I okay with this?

I know that even asking the question puts me firmly in a place of privilege.

I was 24 and teaching the first time I was ever in a position where I was the minority. Even then, there were other white teachers I could bounce my fears off of. I’ve taught three kids who were the only white kids in the school. Again, I am not doing this thing blind. I’ve seen the impact of a white kid learning how to navigate as the non-majority. Two out of three times, I knew it was for the best. Being in a place where I was the only was one of the most profound experiences I have had. It taught me things books never could. I hope my kids will see it as the same gift.

Both my girls, but my oldest especially is bright and outgoing. She has never met a stranger and is completely socially fearless. She has learned that the ladies will talk to you on MARTA if you open the conversation with either “you are beautiful” or “I like your pretty earrings.” I wonder if she will even notice that she is the only kid who has to put on sunscreen to go out to recess.

And what about me? Am I strong enough to parent my kids as the only white mom around? I know what my students used to say about white parents, that we were too soft, that we let our kids get away with too much. There is a deep internal cringe, that for me, is reserved for when my kid is acting crazy and I am the only white parent around. I know that being able to opt out of this experience says all I need to say about my privilege. I know my neighbors don’t have that choice.

Then there are the social fears. What will I say to the raised eyebrows of the ladies in the pilates class when I walk in wearing a t-shirt sporting the elementary school name? Will the other school moms accept me? I say that the term “failing school” is more often than not a giant lie, do I believe it enough to send my kid there, or is that just something I believe in theory?

Turns out, I do believe in the neighborhood school, in the likelihood that this “failing school” will be a radical success for my daughter. When I got the text that she was on the list I was relieved. I wish I could say something more confident than “we’ll give it a try.” But I suppose every mother has mixed feelings about her baby going to school.

I attended the church of my youth this Sunday. The same carpet was in the sanctuary, the same banner my mother made for Lent was hanging in the back of the sanctuary. It is still beautiful. I love that church. I love the brown bricks I remember them placing one at a time on all the bits of the church that grew up around me as I grew up in it. I love the blue carpet that hides stains well and the baptismal I hid in while playing sardines at the youth group lock in.

I grew up in that church. Was confirmed, baptised, and married by the same preacher. When he compliments my writing my heart is so deeply touched. I ran into his wife outside of the sanctuary as I was herding my two children into the children’s wing for Sunday school and plastic kitchen play time. The same woman who showed me the Roman Road and who led me in the sinners prayer when I was in the third grade and curious about heaven after the Wednesday Night Alive programming was over.

My family has been called, to a city 653 miles south on 75, and I married an academic, so who knows where we will end up when the job search is all said and done. If you are called, I pray you go. I am so very glad we did. But, I think we romanticize the calling and the going. This Sunday, as I sat in the sanctuary where I learned to hear God’s voice, I was reminded that staying is a Holy work.

May God bless those who stay, the ones who buy presents for the baby shower, the high school graduation, the wedding shower, and the next generation of babies. May they know that the love they lavish on, with the fancy sandwiches and the beautiful bows, is never forgotten, is deeply holy work.

May God bless those who stay, those who remember the gift of the four-year old Sunday school class they were not responsible for leading when they were young mothers, and decide, 25 years later, that it is time to pay that gift forward.

May God bless those who stay, through the preacher changes, and the music adjustments, and the building committees and the constantly changing VBS themes. May they feel seen and heard. May they know that there work is exciting and important. May God continue to make all things new.

May God bless those who stay, those who are born into a church and choose to bore their babies into the same church. May they have the courage to grow and change as they reach for their God. may they feel courageous, as it takes courage to change right where you are.

May God bless those who stay, who take their whole lives and invest into a single community. May their bounty be multiplied, may their joy be overflowing. May they know that staying and investing and noticing those who come and go, and those who also stay, is truly the work of a loving God.

I read in a poetry show last Thursday. I wrote about the world I teach in and the one I used to. You may or may not know, I’ve written a whole book about it. I’ve worked through a proposal on it, in the hopes of getting this book published. I’ve guest posted about it, and run a series about it, and had countless dinner party conversations where I get angry and completely dominate the talking because I cannot stop talking about the injustice inherent in our education system.

I talk, and write, and THINK about the whole thing so often that I grow tired of the same words coming out of my mouth. I think because I have told the story about being awakened by a spotlight, or the story about not telling, that I have said it all. And maybe I have. But not everyone has heard it, and certainly not the people who can do something about it.

I have been holding back out of fear. Out of fear that there are only so many times I can tell this story, fear that there are only so many times people will listen. I am afraid that people will shake their heads and roll their eyes and say, “there goes Abby, talking about educational injustice again. I really wish she would stop.”

When I opened my mouth at that show last week, that didn’t happen. The words rang loud and angry and the crows grew silent. It turns out that I am not the only one in this world who would actually like to have No Child Left Behind, rather than a law that ensures it.

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I ran into an old colleague yesterday, one I hadn’t seen in three years. I asked her if she was still at the school I had left. She nodded. I asked her if the things I had been hearing from the county emergency response team were true. She nodded. I asked her if she were thinking about going somewhere else. She nodded. Ten years was enough. She couldn’t do it anymore.

I need you to know some things about this ninth grade teacher looking to get out. I need you to know I observed her class for one day and learned more about teaching than my entire under graduated education. I need you to know she produces some of the highest scores in the state, out of a school that has mediocre test scores at best. I need you to know that she is totally even keeled and not easily shaken. I need you to know that she had every intention of being a career teacher at an inner-city school.

She is tired y’all. She is tired of the news showing up and the guns in the parking lot. She is tired of the way the school isn’t safe and the energy it takes to just make sure no one is seriously injured on your watch. I don’t mean to say that I am not tired too. I am. It is 4 hours to spring break, of course I am tired. And my job is hard. Of course it is. I spend all day getting 15 and 16 year old’s to read and actually think about real life. But when she asked me, when she asked me what it was like, on the other side of the city where the kids are well fed and not in gangs, I remembered the truth: We may have the same title and make the same salary. We may sign the same contract. But the job is not the same.

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I know, and I forget. I’ve written poetry, and blog posts, and a whole freaking manuscript. I forget the way the air is toxic. I forget the way you wake up and put on your make up and drive to school wondering if you can do this today. I forget what it feels like to find ways to numb yourself because your job is that hard. I landed in a job that is hard but doable and I forgot that the impossible no longer exists, because it no longer exists for me.

I want to remember. I want to remember that there are kids who are not given a real chance in this country because they were born in the wrong place at the wrong time. I want to remember that there are neighborhoods that are the wrong place, and that 2014 is still the wrong time. I want to remember that we use the same words, school, teacher, chances, but that they are not at all the same thing.

I don’t think I care anymore, whether people are rolling their eyes and wishing I would talk about something else. I don’t even care that I tell the same stories. I am telling the stories that need heard. I am telling the stories because people don’t know, and I am telling them often because it is easy to forget. I am telling these stories because I believe that there are solutions and people who care. I am writing these stories because they are true, and because I need to remember that. I will no longer shame myself for my story. I will tell it until it isn’t true anymore. May that day come soon.