teach.pray. - Backstory to Present

Back in the late 80s and early 90s, my family lived in a double wide trailer with an above ground pool on my grandpa's land in the heart of Georgia - Juliette, Georgia, "Home of Fried Green Tomatoes," the epitome of redneck. I grew up with an alcoholic father, who loved me and took care of me, but had an addiction. He was an iron worker and made decent money but spent it irresponsibly. When he was sober and not in jail, I called him Daddy Rabbit. When he stumbled home drunk in the middle of the night and started yelling and throwing my mom around, I called him King David. My home environment was less than desirable. So, undesirable, friends weren't allowed to stay over because, let's face it, it wasn't safe. My mom, my brother, and I never knew when we'd have to hide silently in my bedroom closet until dad passed out, so we could safely sneak out of the house to my great grandmother's. What's sad, looking back as an adult, I thought that's what everyone's life was like. I didn't realize my family was the talk of the town, or that I was "that" child in the classroom. It was my life. It's all I knew.

My mom worked at the Bibb Company, a textile factory in our little town. It provided a majority of our town citizens with work. She worked in the factory doing a man's job. If I remember correctly, she had to move bolts of fabric or something. All I know, when she came home, she was soaked in sweat and looked exhausted. There was no doubt she worked her ass off. Then, she'd shower and go to work at Rum Creek, a local convenient store. She had to work multiple jobs, so my brother and I would have food and clothes and a roof over our heads, because as I mentioned before, we never knew when my dad would get arrested again. My mom is a fighter. The strongest fighter I know. We were poor, but I never knew it. My brother and I didn't go without. I thought every family paid for their clothes through K-Mart lay away plans, and nothing was better than the handmade clothes my great granny and mom made for me. After all, my cousins and I were the only kids with California Raisin hammer pants. 

From kindergarten to second grade, I was pulled out of the classroom for speech services. My teachers thought I was a selective mute or something, because I was so shy at school. I do not remember a lot about those early elementary years. I remember my teachers. I remember some of my classmates. I remember liking school and having fun at school. I remember my bus driver, Mr. Joe. I always really liked Mr. Joe. He called everybody baby, but you could hear compassion in his voice and see kindness in his eyes. Anyway, I don't remember school being difficult for me. As far as I know, I performed on grade level and excelled, other than my social skills. 

In second grade, my life changed drastically. My dad was murdered. My mom became a single mom, and my brother, Miles, who was five years older than me, became my primary caretaker, because my mom had to work three jobs. Life was interesting. But, it always had been. School was my refuge. Over the years, life changed as it always does. My mom got a better paying job and no longer had to work three jobs. She eventually remarried, and we moved into a "real" house and no longer had to put things on lay away. Life's road smoothed out a little...at least for a while. When life got rough again, because it did (it got real rough in middle school), school was still my refuge. It was a place where I had some control. I was a straight A student, not because I was ever pushed by my parents, but because learning was important to me. School was a place of success and escape for me. It was an escape from my life and an open door to a new one.

When it was time for college, there was no doubt I wanted to go. Luckily, my mom and step-dad were financially stable to pay for what scholarships didn't cover. Going into college everyone told me to be a teacher. I was hell bent on being a doctor, sports medicine. Then, my freshman year, my first English professor inspired me to be a writer. After all, keeping a journal and writing poetry are what got me through the rough years in late elementary/middle school. Eventually, I settled on journalism, even though, all my life, people told me I should be a teacher. 

Upon graduating college (with my journalism degree), I moved back to Georgia and worked for a small local newspaper. It was fine, but life got crazy, and my first bout of deep, deep depression hit. Getting out of bed to go to work had become one of the biggest challenges in my life. I didn't feel I had any purpose in life, and I wanted purpose so bad. Guilt moved in as well, because my mom and sisters were going through some difficult times, and my mom needed me. After about six months at the newspaper, I moved back to South Carolina to be with my family, and, soon after, I enrolled in the M.A.T. program at Converse College for special education.

So, how did I figure out becoming a special education teacher was my purpose? Well, during high school and college, I worked for the YMCA at the front desk. After several years, I got to know people and their weekly routines. Thursday nights were my favorite nights to work because a local center would bring a group of special needs adults to swim. They always stopped to chat with me and were always the kindest hearted and happiest individuals. Those young men and women touched my heart with their spirits. While working for the newspaper and realizing I wasn’t doing the job I was meant to do I began to reflect on my future. I realized those Thursday nights were God’s way of leading me to my future. Though I had taken a detour, I couldn’t ignore what my heart was calling me to do. That local group of special needs adults are the people who influenced me to be a teacher. I knew if I could make a difference in their life, like they had made in mine, I’d be doing my part in changing the world.

The 2016-2017 school year will be my eighth year teaching. Every year, around mid-March until the end of May, I complain constantly about my career choice and threaten to find another career. It's stressful that time of year. I'm a different person that time of year. But, when it's all said and done, I can't think of any other career I'd rather have.

Over the years, I've had quite a few of "those" students from "that" family. I see them sitting in the classroom with the weight of the world on their shoulders. Unlike me as a child, school is the last place most of them want to be. There's some gravitational pull in the universe that sends me to "those" students from "that" family. I do my best to never pass judgment and to accept them and their family the way they are. I do my very best to disregard notions passed down from previous teachers, and I work really hard to break through the walls "those" students have built around them. Though, the days get long and the stress builds, I have no doubt this is my purpose. My purpose is not only to teach these kids academics. My purpose is to love these kids, exactly the way they are, because I can empathize with them.

I don't know how many years I have in me, but I know God has blessed me and placed me on this path for a reason. Not all kids come to school put together. My job is to respect them and love them and help them put their pieces back together.