Inside me is a fire. And a knot. And a churning, twisting tyrant. And a pit, a black, sickening pit of rage. Festering and fermenting and fragmenting. Becoming more and more unstable. Getting harder and harder to contain. Suffocating me, consuming me, starving me, empowering me. I feel sick. I feel to scream. I want to cry. And kick. And slaughter. And devour. I never said it was good fire. It is a motivating, venomous fire. Giving off sick, pungent, deadly fumes. And I’m inhaling. And I’m exhaling. And I’m fighting. And I’m embracing.
Teachers, stop beating my children.
And don’t get confused, they’re not my biological children – I haven’t given into that gender role yet, thought I’m not sure why I even feel the need to justify this [another blog, another day]
Teachers, stop beating my students.
They come to me after school. They sit. They learn what you could not teach them. They ask questions you could not answer. They laugh at things that you’d prefer them remain silent about. They sometimes get annoyed with me, or angry at me because I push them. And motivate them in a way you could not imagine. Yet somehow it’s all worth it. To me, to them.
And after they’ve grown. And after they’ve been nurtured. And after they’ve been loved and protected and finally believe in themselves again. I send them back to you, again. So you can break them, again. So you can hit them, again. So you can teach them that mistakes are not to learned from but rather, they are punishable offences. And they should know better of course, than to try. It’s my fault though, I haven’t gotten that far in the syllabus yet. I teach them to read, but you teach them math: one slap, two taps, three shoves and four words that cut like knives,
“You are no good”
“You deserve this pain”
“You’re not good enough”
“Shut up. Stop talking.”
“Stupid boy. Stupid girl.”
“What do you expect”
And when they come to my little classroom and drop their bags and start to tell me about their day, my heart sinks as I see a little crinkle flutter across their forehead.
“I am afraid to go to school,” the darling boy says. And a cracking voice over the phone whispers, “Miss I don’t know why he’s crying every morning – he never did that before” so I reach for help and the ignorant pig spits, “this complaint of corporal punishment, is it a…serious matter?”
And I hang up, and cry silently for a moment and I feel the furnace ignite. And tears fall on my keyboard and tears fall on my clothes and tears fall into the palms of my hands that clench instinctively and I try to fight the rising smoke. Then I breathe fire and I feel myself wanting you to feel it too. Let me warm you, let me give you a taste of the pain you inflict on these beautiful, young minds. Let me protect. Let me destroy. Let me avenge. Let me rain fire. Let me reign, fire.
Teachers stop hitting my students.
Teachers stop hitting my children.